Libertine
by L.Bronte
Summary: The story of a girl whose life was like a fairytale — Until she realized that her castle was her prison and her enchanted prince was a monster. 1873 - Erik Roinoir, musical director of the Opera Garnier, becomes the guardian of a young Christine Daae.
1. Chapter 1: Of Fine & Dying Men

**Author's Note:** My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. My story takes place in the latter part of the 1800s. There will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in-depth character profiles.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1: Of Fine and Dying Men<strong>

The man in the carriage had illustrated very clearly that it was a great inconvenience for him to have travelled all the way to Gustave's tiny southern town. As he arrived at his friend's cottage, he wore neither concern nor apprehension upon his face that was visible to the staff, only pronounced contempt at having been dragged away from Paris. A houseman escorted the finely dressed man up to the second floor and into Gustave's room. Here the fine man blanched and dropped to a knee at the door.

He saw death had clearly marked his old friend. Gustave's once boyish face was altered into that of a deaths-head, with protruding cheekbones and sunken eyes. An emaciated skeleton had replaced the once strong body. Gray hairs peppered his black and matted mane, and his skin had taken on the colour and consistency of parchment. When the fine man entered, he thought he was witnessing death himself.

"Gustave! What's happened to you?" The fine man exclaimed before getting to his feet and rushing to the bedside.

"You noticed?" Gustave chuckled darkly. The sick man lifted his arm and placed a hand on the fine man's shoulder. "I need to ask something of you — before I pass on."

"Anything you ask, I shall concede to. Please, speak with me first?" The fine man replied, wishing to comfort his dying friend.

Gustave shook his head pathetically. "I must ask you this first. If we spend time prattling I might drift off like a leaf on the wind. This matter is most precious to me. It is loathsome to say, but if you refuse, I shall die cursing your name."

There was still clear defiance in Gustave's great, brown eyes, and the fine man could only nod for his friend to go on.

"We parted when I had decided to relinquish my bachelor ways, and since then my wife has perished. It was in childbirth that she was taken from me. But she left me with a beautiful child — Christine. You must become her guardian," the dying man paused for the fine man's reaction.

"I'm a twenty-seven year old bachelor! I can't look after a child. She will be safer if you leave her in the woods to die!" The fine man retorted.

"Bite your tongue!" Gustave shouted, then calmed after a fit of coughs and a stern look from his nurse. "I didn't choose you because I thought you would be the best guardian. I chose you because you will be able to provide the best guardian."

The fine man's exasperation stopped at this.

"I don't have time to search for a proper nanny and governess, you must do this for me. You and Christine will receive all of my worldly assets. Seventy percent going to Christine, (to be given to her on her seventeenth birthday) and thirty percent shall go to you, in order to provide for her. She is only three years old, and you must take her nanny back home with you as well. Jeanne has been paid for the entire year, and will remain until you find a proper nanny." Gustave motioned for the butler to come forward.

The butler approached the fine man, and handed him a thick ledger.

"These are all of the appropriate documents you will need in order to sign over guardianship, as well as information about my property and liquid assets. There is also a copy of my last will," Gustave peered up at the fine man with pleading eyes.

The fine man looked away toward the door, praying for an exit. He could not consent to taking over the care of a child, for the child's sake alone. He knew that he was a selfish and callous man, and those were two very poor characteristics for a guardian to possess. "Gustave, you cannot ask this of me. There must be someone else—anyone else?"

"If it isn't you, it's the orphanage. I'll be dead before I can draft other plans," Gustave began to panic and his breathing laboured dangerously. "Think, man. Put her up in your château outside of Paris, the one near Presles. You'll never have to care for her yourself, find her kind keepers and go on with your life. You can be the rogue uncle who only arrives to bring lavish gifts; it's the role you were born to play."

"How can you be so certain about signing her away to me?" The fine man whispered as he shook his head.

"Because I have typhoid! Because I'll be dead before this time tomorrow! Because I want her to be secure! Because you are a better man than you let on!" The sick man sat forward in his bed and shouted with all of his might. He collapsed as he finished his tirade, and began a deep set of coughing. Blood began to pour from his nose as he hacked his breath away.

The fine man took a stride toward the bed, but the nurse shouted for him to stand back. The nurse then went to Gustave's side and helped him to settle. She retreated as the coughs subsided.

Gustave looked silently at the fine man, and wiped the blood from his face.

The fine man unbound the ledger in his hands and laid out the papers on the desk beside him. He rifled through them until he found the guardianship forms. Before Gustave's eyes, the fine man's trembling hand drew his signature across the parchment. He rose, and brought the form before Gustave.

"You see here, I shall care for your daughter. She shall want for nothing. I promise you. Her happiness will be assured. Rest peacefully now." The fine man folded the paper and returned it to the ledger.

Gustave grinned and closed his eyes.

"Perhaps you should let him sleep now, monsieur," the nurse told the fine man.

"Yes, I shall retire to my room. If you need anything else, send for me, Gustave." The fine man swallowed painfully, and bowed to his friend. He went to leave, but turned back as the dying man spoke.

"A thousand thanks to you—Erik."

By the time the fine man awoke in the morning, Gustave Daae was dead.


	2. Chapter 2: The Beginning

**Author's Note:** My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. My story takes place in the latter part of the will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in depth character profiles.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 2: The Beginning<strong>

Gustave Daae was dead, and Erik Roinoir was set to become the guardian of his young daughter, Christine. Erik had never before laid eyes upon the little creature, and felt piteous that he would have to take it on just as its father died. He watched the mortician and his assistant carry Gustave's corpse out to a cart, and he bowed his head in true sorrow.

As the back of the cart was raised, he heard a shrill scream from the floor above. A light pattering pounded across the floor, and Erik looked up toward the second floor railing above him. A tiny mass of brown curls and blue lace fixed itself around the railing. Though only three years old, the little girl knew her father was gone.

"Papa!" She shrieked and fell to the ground. "Papa!"

Erik wondered where the nanny had gone, and why she wasn't caring for the screaming child. He paused, but then he ascended the stairs toward her. His eyes followed her through the railing and he saw her reddened and puckered little face; she was a horrid sight for him to behold. As he advanced upon her, she turned toward him, but continued to shriek and call for her papa. He stood a few feet from the child and considered what he should do.

"Jeanne!" He called for her nanny. "Jeanne! The child is out on the landing!" His glanced impatiently down one hallway, then the next, and then back at her. She stared at him as she continued, reaching a pathetic little hand toward him. He glanced out the door as he heard the cart pull away from the cottage. She shrieked louder.

Erik stamped his foot and grasped Christine's tiny wrist before pulling her up and into his arms. He clutched her to him in the most paternal manner he could muster, but nothing would stem her cries. He awkwardly petted her hair as she shouted "PAPA! PAPA! PAPA!" in his ear.

"Papa is gone, Christine," he whispered.

She went silent.

Erik held his breath for a few moments, and then continued, "Papa has gone away to Heaven. He missed your mama so terribly, that he went to be with her once more." It was strange for him to weave a story so; he could not be sure what to say to calm the bereaved—and especially not when it was a child.

"Mama?" Christine croaked as if she had never heard of such a person.

"Yes. It was your papa's time to be with your mama again. And your papa sent for me to take care of you."

Christine leaned back and looked into the piercing eyes of the stranger holding her and spoke, "Don't want you."

He was unprepared for the pang this statement sent through his heart, and reacted more harshly than was necessary, "I have similar feelings."

Though she could not understand him, his tone was enough for her to realize the spiteful nature of his comment. Her shrieks began anew, and luckily Jeanne appeared from down the left hallway.

"Monsieur, I will take her now." Jeanne pulled Christine away as quickly as she could manage, having registered the look of disdain on Monsieur Roinoir's face.

"Where the hell have you been? She's been crying out here for minutes," Erik scolded her.

Jeanne nestled Christine to her breast, then replied, "She cried herself to sleep in my lap an hour ago, I thought she was still abed, monsieur. Her father has just passed, she is distraught."

"What did you tell her?" Erik wondered.

"I told her that Monsieur Daae has gone up to be with the Lord, and that someday she will rejoin him." Jeanne patted Christine's back. "Monsieur Daae has tried to prepare her; to tell her that he would be going."

Erik considered this, and massaged his forehead. "How long will she be like this?"

"A month or two, I suppose. She is fortunate to be young enough that she will forget the harshest of times. After living with you for a time, she will attach herself to you, I am sure." Jeanne smiled reassuringly at Erik. He was essentially made a father overnight, and she tried to sympathize with her new employer.

Erik scoffed at her last comment, "She has only just met me, and has said herself that she doesn't want me. I'm pleased that one of us has high hopes."

"Monsieur Daae has only just passed," Jeanne began as she walked back toward Christine's room, "She doesn't want anyone but him."

Monsieur Roinoir informed the mortician that it was necessary for the funeral and burial to take place the very next day. The mortician tried to explain that other corpses were in line before him, but Erik paid him handsomely after insisting that he needed to return to Paris as soon as possible. And so the funeral took place the morning after the day that Gustave died.

All of the staff had been ordered to pack up Christine's belongings—along with a few of Gustave's—and place them in a large cart that Erik had hired. The moment that the burial was over, Erik planned to set off with the nanny and the child. The whole of the night before the burial, Christine could be heard bawling in her room. When it stopped, he crept silently toward her room and found Jeanne lying her out in bed.

"Jeanne," he whispered, "I must speak with you in private."

Jeanne looked up, pulled a blanket over Christine and followed Erik back to his room. "Is there anything you require, monsieur?"

Erik grimaced. "Did Monsieur Daae tell you anything at all about me?" He asked her.

Jeanne thought for a moment, "He told me that you were a wealthy friend from his time at the conservatoire, and that you are the musical director of the Opera Garnier now." She looked at him more closely than she had upon their first meeting on the landing, and realized he was far younger than she had previously assumed.

"Good, that's what I wanted to speak with you about. I must be back in Paris as soon as possible—a new season is about to begin—and I haven't much time to search for a governess or a nanny. It is my assumption that you may have knowledge as to where I might contact potential employees?" Erik inquired, hoping this would not be too difficult for her.

"Indeed, monsieur. If it is not too presumptuous, I could search for them in your stead." Jeanne bowed her head shyly at this. "Christine has me for another year, and she will not require a governess for a few years after that," she paused sheepishly, "Perhaps I could stay on as her nanny and one less matter would be removed from your agenda?"

If an employee from Paris had been so bold, Erik would have terminated their employment outright, but he found the country verve of Jeanne to be both refreshing and helpful. She hung her head in embarrassment, and a ginger curl slipped from its coil at the back of her head.

"I would appreciate it greatly if you would do that for me, Jeanne. The château is already staffed and will be ready for you tomorrow. I must leave at once, but I will return to see if everything is in order," Erik assured her. She looked up at him and smiled. "But you, surely don't want to be that brat's nanny. You're too young to be tied to her for so long. Shouldn't you be out on adventures? Breaking hearts? How old are you, Jeanne?"

The nanny blushed a deep red on pale, smooth cheeks, "I am sixteen, monsieur."

"Sixteen and already caring for another person's child? How did you come to be here?" He questioned.

"My family is quite poor; I have six siblings, all younger than myself. I would have done anything to help them. Monsieur Daae hired me when I was thirteen because I used to care for Madame Daae while she was sick and with child. He told me I had a mothering instinct, even at my age. And I know I shouldn't feel this way, but I do feel as if Christine is my own flesh and blood. I would be so very sad to leave her, monsieur," Jeanne pleaded passionately to him.

Erik wondered if one day, he would care for Christine in the same manner. Jeanne had been acting as her mother, and he would not tear them apart. "You may stay on, Jeanne, as you have requested."

Jeanne clasped his hands in hers, before exclaiming, "OH! Thank you, monsieur! Thank you. I must visit Monsieur and Madame Leyre tonight!"

"Monsieur and Madame Leyre?"

"My father and mother, monsieur," she informed him.

He looked down and saw that her hands were still clasping his. When he returned his eyes to hers, he saw that the hazel orbs were filled with gratitude.

"Your hair is very red," he told her suddenly.

"It is, monsieur," she returned, and released his hands.

He surprised her by brushing the previously fallen curl back behind her ear. "It's like the sunset, and your skin is like a porcelain doll's." The back of his hand smoothed over her cheek.

Jeanne hesitated. "Thank you, monsieur." She took a step to the side, but he followed.

"You are a rare beauty, Jeanne," he told her conversationally.

Her eyes opened wide at this.

"Are you certain that you want to come along tomorrow? I wouldn't be cross if you chose to stay home. I'm sure there are many country boys after your charms," he said calmly.

"How dare you! I would do anything for Christine! I love her with all of my heart, and I would go anywhere to take care of her; never mind my appearance, or the country boys," she scolded him freely.

Erik smiled. "That is a pleasure to hear, Jeanne. I wanted to be certain."

A look of realization came over Jeanne's face, "Oh, I see. For a moment I thought you were trying to coax me into something wicked. I've heard too many stories about libertine employers."

Erik shook his head. "You've no cause for distress. Get thee to bed, Jeanne. We shall have a sorrowful and busy day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Good night, monsieur." Jeanne curtsied as she left the room.

"Good night, Jeanne," he called after her as he closed the door.

Erik was quite pleased with himself, after securing Jeanne's employment for what he hoped would be the next fourteen years. She would throw herself under a horse before she would allow Christine come to harm, he could see it plainly.

The fact that she was comely only increased his celebration. If the image of Gustave's sickly form had not been haunting the back of his mind, his interaction with Jeanne may have ended quite differently. As the young and dashing musical director of the Opera Garnier, Erik never wanted for the company of attractive women. He was either lying with a comtesse who loved his production of Tristan and Isolde, or he would be dallying with a chorus girl who wanted to "earn" a better part. Erik knew himself to be selfish and cold, but he was also beguiling. He was young, handsome and wealthy, and at every turn he flaunted his assets.

He could have envisioned Jeanne in his bed, but the image of Gustave rotting in a casket would not leave his mind's eye.

He laid in bed, and reminded himself that by the same time the next day, Christine and Jeanne would be at the château, he would be in his flat in Paris, and la Carlotta would welcome him with quivering thighs.


	3. Chapter 3: Château du Roinoir

**Author's Note:** My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. My story takes place in the mid-1800s. There will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in depth character profiles.

I am so grateful for all of the reviews! This chapter contains depictions of sexual situations of graphic nature, you have been warned.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 3: Château du Roi Noir<strong>

The morning of Gustave Daae's funeral, the entirety of the village's inhabitants ventured to the church and then to the cemetery in order to pay their respects. Christine cried throughout the service, but Jeanne kept her quieted. They took a carriage to the cemetery and watched the casket as it was lowered into the ground. At this point Christine's cries broke free, and Jeanne was forced to clamp her arms around a child that was biting, kicking and slapping her with no small amount of force.

The priest said a slew of words that Erik was sure he had heard at many a funeral, but he was not listening to the man. He stared into the hole in the ground and wondered when death would come for him. He knew that he was a mortal man, and had hoped that Gustave's death would not induce feelings of an unfulfilled life. But alas, he wondered if he too would die young. He wondered if the path he had chosen was correct, or perhaps just easier to come by. He began to question himself, and became impatient to leave the horrid little town. The moment the casket was in the ground, he tossed a handful of dirt across the lid, and began walking toward the carriage.

Jeanne looked at him in slight disbelief, but did the same, and followed him out through the gate. She glanced back to wave to her mother and father before submitting to the fate that lie before her.

"I do not intend to seem cold, but I have very important matters to attend to. A great many people depend on me back in Paris," he told Jeanne over his shoulder as they walked toward the carriage. A light drizzle of rain had begun to fall over their heads and Jeanne shielded Christine.

"I understand, monsieur. What more could we do there, but weep?" Jeanne did not quite agree with this, but wanted to please her new master. She handed Christine up to Erik as they entered the carriage.

He took hold of her at her waist and held her at arm's length before setting her quickly down on the seat across from him. Jeanne climbed in after them and they were off for the Château du Roi Noir.

As they rode, Christine's whimpering became less and less until she fell asleep with her head across Jeanne's lap. Soon after Christine fell asleep, Jeanne watched as Erik too fell into a slumber. She studied the man carefully as he slept, inspecting his appearance more closely than she had been able to before. Erik Roinoir was a strikingly featured man, with pale skin and dark auburn hair. He had a long nose and a stern brow. He was a lean man; both tall and strong-shouldered. She already knew that he was a short-tempered man, and that his word was going to be law.

A heavy rain began pelting the roof of the carriage and Jeanne watched as Monsieur Roinoir's eyes opened upon her. His pale eyes came alive at the sight of her and she blushed for having been caught looking.

"Damn!" Erik cursed as he looked out of the window. "I'll never make it to Paris in this rain!"

"You would only lose one day, monsieur," Jeanne attempted to console him.

Erik scoffed, "I couldn't afford to lose the past two days, but what is one more?" He elbowed the wall of the carriage in defeat. "Goddamn weather." As he looked back up at Jeanne, he saw something strange on her neck. "You're bleeding, Jeanne. On your neck, there," he told her as he pointed.

Jeanne wiped a hand across her neck and felt dried blood flake away from the wound, and then she saw the fresh blood on her fingers. "Christine had bitten me in her fit. She can be spirited," she explained.

"Discipline her any way you like. Gustave would not have appreciated if I allowed his daughter to throw fits and masticate others." Erik meant to say this in a joking manner, but saw that Jeanne was not amused. There was so much kindness behind her eyes, and he suspected that she would never strike a child.

"Christine is just upset, monsieur. It will pass," Jeanne said quietly.

"Yes, one can only hope. As we arrive at the château, my housekeeper will introduce herself and show you to your room. If the cook has anything in, our meal may be satisfactory. If you can quiet her, Christine must also be present," Erik instructed.

The carriage approached the gate and Jeanne peered out to view the grounds. A line of willow trees decorated the thin gravel road that lead to the château. She smiled as she spied a lake through the trees. Erik watched her reaction and could not help being flattered by the smile on her lips. Jeanne attempted to be nonchalant as her eyes explored the estate, but she found her nose pressed against the glass as the carriage pulled to a stop.

"We're here," Erik announced and pushed open the carriage door before the servants could do so. A small woman stood to his side and bent into a curtsy. Jeanne gathered the sleeping Christine in her arms, and assisted out of the carriage by the footman. The small woman smiled at Jeanne, but said nothing.

"Madame Renault, feel free to introduce yourself," Erik ordered, "Mademoiselle Leyre, please do the same."

Madame Renault approached Jeanne, before taking her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Leyre, even under the circumstances." She put her hand on Christine's head. "Poor, little dear."

"I am pleased as well to make your acquaintance. I will do my best to adapt myself to the household. I may be young, but I follow orders diligently, as well as — "

Erik interrupted Jeanne here, "You may continue your conversation at another time. I grow hungry and you must be shown to your rooms." He turned to Madame Renault and continued, "Bring Jeanne to Christine's room and then to her own. Then immediately go to the cook and order dinner to be on the table within 40 minutes or he may seek employment elsewhere." When he was finished, he began walking toward the château.

Jeanne was stunned by the harshness of his commands, but she dashed up the steps behind him. As they walked, Jeanne glanced about the façade of the house and saw gargoyles decorating the roof and other unseemly and Gothic ornaments were laid into the cold stone. Heavy and dark wooden doors opened to them as they reached the top stair. When they entered, Jeanne gasped at the extravagance. Red hangings decorated the enormous front hall, and a matching red carpet led to the grand staircase that in turn led to the East and West wings. The ceiling was higher than the church bell in her village.

The master of the house did not turn to his new employee to bid farewell, but went directly up the grand staircase. He disappeared from Jeanne's view as he entered the West wing.

"The master is surely tired and vexed by the sudden circumstances, Mademoiselle. His manners are not about him. At dinner he shall be much improved. Let me show you and the little mademoiselle along now." Madame Renault appeared to be a kind, grandmotherly sort of woman, and Jeanne found herself ever so much more at ease in her presence.

"Shall my room be near Christine's?" Jeanne wondered as they walked through the East wing.

Madame Renault chuckled, "But of course! You shall occupy the bedroom that adjoins hers." The Madame glanced back at the sleeping Christine. "I must say that I was shocked by the news that Master Erik would be taking on a ward. He is a—A good man, if not a kind one. But I believe he saw a good and kind soul in you. I see your affection for her and it reminds me of the times I held my own babies."

Jeanne cradled Christine closer. "She has been through so much, and all I have to give her is my affections," she paused, "You have children, Madame?"

"I have, they are all gone off and married now. Three boys and a girl. It shall be refreshing to have younger blood moving in these halls. Things get quiet without the master." Madame Renault paused at a bedroom door, unlatched the lock, and pushed open the door.

It was an overly large room, both a bedroom and playroom for Christine. Her possessions had already been brought up. A large bay window looked out over the lake, and Jeanne grew excited as she set Christine on the queen-sized bed. She watched the geese floating over the water, and realized that the rain had stopped.

A stirring came from the bed and Christine awoke to her new surroundings. Her first instinct was to cry out, but Jeanne wrapped her arms around her and tried to explain.

"We're home now, Christine, your new home. This is your room, and this is your new house keeper, Madame Renault." It was clear that her words had no effect.

Christine cried for her papa, until she saw a doll that he had given to her just before he died set on top of her trunk. Her tears stopped, and Jeanne released her to go after the toy. When it was in her hands, she held it tightly to her chest. After a moment she rubbed her tiny stomach, and looked hungrily toward Jeanne.

"You must go change," Madame Renault requested. "I will help the little mademoiselle get ready. You'll find your new frock laid out for you on the bed." The Madame then pointed to a door near the head of the bed. "You room is through there."

"Of course, Madame Renault, I will hurry. But I warn you, Christine bites," with that, Jeanne entered her new room. Though it was less than half the size of Christine's room, it was twice the size of the room that she had shared with another girl in the Daae house. Her window also overlooked the lake. As she closed the door, she spun around in a fit of sudden ecstasy. Then she fell sobbing to the floor.

Gustave Daae was dead—a wonderful man by all accounts, and a fine father. She could not cry in front of Christine, because she needed to be strong for the child. She would not have cried in front of Monsieur Roinoir, who she thought to be cold and unfeeling. She could only weep alone, for it was clear that the nature of her tears were not those of a servant to her master. It was unknown to others that Jeanne Leyre had grown to love the man who had plucked her from a simple life and treated her kindly in his fine home.

A knock on the door interrupted her fit. "Mademoiselle Leyre? Are you all right?" Madame Renault spoke softly through the door.

"Yes, of course. I will be along shortly." Jeanne wiped the tears out of her eyes and began undressing. She found her new frock lying across her large bed, and slowly lifted it toward her. It was an exquisite gown. It was made of fine emerald silk, and accented with short, ruched sleeves. She stepped into the gown and pulled it up over her shoulders. The neck was finished with a delicate white lace that dipped low across her chest. She thought that no other nanny had ever been so finely dressed. After making certain that her hair was not a mess, she stepped back into Christine's room.

Madame Renault had just finished rolling Christine's stockings up her legs. Christine lazily allowed this to happen as she caressed her doll's head.

"Mademoiselle Leyre! Wherever did you find that gown?" Madame Renault asked in surprise.

"This is the frock that was laid out on my bed," Jeanne replied.

"I placed a proper gray frock out for you this morning. The master must have ordered it to be otherwise," Madame Renault reasoned ruefully. "He doesn't waste time. He must have had another servant race us here."

Jeanne looked down sheepishly. "Shall I change?"

"No, of course not! If the master wishes you to wear that, you must do as he wishes. But I warn you, he will be up to no good if he stoops to giving the nanny gifts." This statement made Jeanne's stomach turn.

"'Stoops'?" Jeanne repeated.

"I don't mean to offend, but it isn't often that the master of the house treats his servants with gifts from Paris." Madame Renault covered Christine's ears and whispered to Jeanne, "Before when I said Master Erik is good—if not kind, well, he has been known to enjoy the company of the younger ladies on staff. I've done away with them all now, but he is a man with power, and he expects certain privileges. In Paris, he has every woman in the Opera House under his thumb."

Jeanne was taken aback by the bluntness of the Madame. Did he expect to have "privileges" with her?

"Now, now. I'm not saying he'll be forceful with you, but know that if he makes an advance, you must be kind when you refuse. I like you, Jeanne. I would be happy if you could stay here." Madame Renault removed her hands from Christine's ears, and patted her hair. "You two should be going now."

Jeanne took hold of Christine's hand and walked toward the door. She glanced back at Madame Renault as she gave her a grim smile. Jeanne had never been so apprehensive about eating dinner before. She wanted to stay in Christine's room and fall asleep with her arms around the child, but Christine was likely starving, and she would not deny her sustenance.

An older man waited for them at the top of the grand staircase. He introduced himself as Richard Firmin, the butler, and led them toward the dining room. As they entered, a great and glistening chandelier reflected light about the room. It hovered above a long, walnut table. Monsieur Roinoir was seated at the head of the table, and he rose when Jeanne and Christine entered.

Jeanne curtsied, and prodded for Christine to do the same. Instead of greeting them, Monsieur Roinoir stalked toward them, and Jeanne felt like running all the way back to her village. He stopped a few feet away from them, and bowed as low as he could to Christine, before bowing curtly to Jeanne.

Suddenly, in a flurry of moment that Jeanne never would have expected, Monsieur Roinoir scooped Christine off of the floor and twirled her about. Christine shrieked with laughter, a sound that had become so foreign that it warmed Jeanne's heart. He spun her round and round in his arms until he sat her in her chair at the end of the table opposite his own.

A wide and toothy grin was on his face as he turned back to Jeanne. She had not expected him to be so altered, but Madame Renault was right—His manner was almost that of another man.

"Shall you be seated in the same way as Mademoiselle Daae, Jeanne?" He asked her playfully.

"No, thank you, monsieur. I can find my own seat," She replied, cordially.

The master took her hand in his. "As you wish," he whispered before kissing her hand lightly.

As Jeanne sat by Christine's side, she saw a bright smile on her face as she watched Monsieur Roinoir return to his seat.

"You know, Christine, my father used to twirl me about like that. I don't think I enjoyed it half as much you. Look at that pretty smile; I am glad to see it." Monsieur Roinoir continued to surprise Jeanne with his behavior.

_Perhaps it was the loss of his friend that had made him appear so cold at our first meeting,_ Jeanne thought to herself.

"What shall you say to Monsieur Roinoir, Christine?" Jeanne whispered.

"Thank you," Christine said softly.

Erik smiled. "You are most welcome, Christine. And what about you, Jeanne? Do you find your new gown to be satisfactory? I knew Madame Renault would put something drab out for you. I can't have those who are representing my household walking around in rags, now can I?" He took an extended moment to look over her figure. "You shall wear your fine gowns to church and whenever you take Christine outside. The aristocratic families are always welcome to my grounds, and so they often come for strolls. You must be kind and obliging always, but I don't foresee that being a problem for you." Monsieur Roinoir paused, and plucked a grape from a sprig on a serving platter. He held it in his hand, awaiting an answer.

"It will not be a problem," Jeanne assured him.

He grinned and responded, "That pleases me," before taking the grape into his mouth. "Please, commence eating your dinner; Christine looks half-starved."

The young girl immediately reached for a potato on the platter before her. Jeanne delicately cut the vegetable into manageable pieces before allowing Christine to consume them. She then sliced into a small chicken breast that was on the plate before her. The meat was more succulent than any food she could remember eating, but she would only take tiny, ladylike bites. She understood well that Monsieur Roinoir was observing her, and she did not wish to appear to be a rough country girl.

"You eat so gracefully, Jeanne. I could almost mistake you for a comtesse, if your hair wasn't done so plainly." This compliment from Monsieur Roinoir shocked her.

She stared at him from across the table, he wore a baiting grin, had he complemented her manners only to insult her appearance? Instead of mistaking it for either one, she pretended that she had not heard him at all.

"May I apologize to you Jeanne?" Monsieur Roinoir asked suddenly, causing Jeanne to choke on a little piece of apple.

A look of confusion spread over Jeanne's face. "Whatever for, monsieur?"

"I have not treated you kindly, or with any respect, and you have shown me nothing but the utmost courtesy. More importantly, I apologize that I must leave tomorrow for Paris without knowing if you've settled here. I will return as soon as I can," He paused to take a sip of wine, "These past few days have seen me out of sorts. You must understand that the guardianship of a child is not something that I took on lightly. It was a surprise, to say the least, and I find myself without any knowledge of children at all."

"You need not apologize, monsieur. I understand your unease, and I will care for Christine in your stead. I have helped to raise five of my brothers and sisters, and so I am full of methods on child rearing," Jeanne too paused for a sip of wine and blushed when she saw the grin on Monsieur Roinoir's face.

There was happiness about the man at the other side of the table that put Jeanne further at ease in her new home. He asked Christine how she liked her dinner, and chuckled at her positive replies. When he asked Jeanne, she replied that the meal was, "Very fine, indeed."

As the company finished their meals, Monsieur Roinoir suggested that he see them back to their rooms.

"Oh, no, that is not necessary. We shall find our way back; do not think to trouble yourself," Jeanne replied quickly. "Aren't you tired, Christine?" The girl nodded. "You see, I must put her to bed."

Monsieur Roinoir hung his head. "If you're certain—Then good evening to you both."

Christine jumped down from her chair and curtsied without prompting from Jeanne. "Sweet dreams," she cooed at him.

Jeanne curtsied as well, before bidding him a good evening.

They returned directly to Christine's room, and Jeanne helped Christine into her new bed.

"It is swallowing you whole, my little doe," Jeanne joked as she tucked the covers about Christine's tiny body.

Christine shook her head. "I'm here," she whispered playfully.

"Why yes, you are," Jeanne whispered back and kissed her head. "Now go to sleep."

Within a few moments, the little girl was asleep for the night. Her nanny fell back across the foot of the bed and heaved a great sigh that was followed by unprompted tears. They fell quietly down her cheeks, and she was ready to sleep properly for the first time in weeks. Though full of sorrow, there was an element of relief in her tears.

As her eyes began to close, a soft knocking sounded at the door. She accidentally let out a sob of despair; she had been so close to sleep. She rose sourly, and answered the door.

Monsieur Roinoir stood on the other side.

"May I help you, monsieur?" She wiped at her tears and hoped her face had not gone red.

"I came to be sure that Christine could sleep in her new room." He glanced over at her. "She appears to have had no problems." He then saw the redness about Jeanne's eyes. "Jeanne, you've been crying." His hand went to the side of her face immediately.

She brushed it away, swearing, "It's nothing, I'm only overtired."

"Now, now. Invite me inside and tell me what's troubling you," he begged.

"Of course, you are welcome, monsieur, but there is nothing troubling me," she insisted.

He entered and took hold of her shoulders. "I wont go until you tell me what's troubling you. It shall not do Christine well to have a nanny that's crying all the time over nothing."

"Please, monsieur, we may wake Christine," she said in a hushed tone.

"Then come along." He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward her bedroom. Jeanne put up little resistance, but could not imagine telling him her thoughts. When he had closed the door behind them, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Well? Let's have it out then."

She floundered for a moment before she spoke, "I am overwhelmed by the past few days." As she said this, she paced the distance of her bed.

Erik was staring at her in a stern manner, one that she had seen the previous day. "Go on."

"I didn't act it, but I was sorry to leave my home, monsieur," she hoped that this answer would placate him. His gaze did not falter. "My family is there."

"But there is something else? Have you ever known anyone that died before?" He knew that she was not telling him the root of her problem, and wondered how he could get an answer from her.

"Only Madame Daae before him, and she was sick when I was hired. Gustave was so strong when I first met him. I watched him deteriorate into illness, and saw his every pain," as Jeanne spoke, more tears coursed down her cheeks, and she supported herself on the bedpost. "He is at peace now."

"'Gustave'?" Erik repeated. He found it odd that she would use his first name.

"I'm sorry; I meant to say Monsieur Daae. In the Daae household, we were lax with formalities. When I first arrived, he insisted upon calling me Jeanne instead of Mademoiselle Leyre; just as you do now." Her tears increased as she told him this. Sobs soon followed, and she sat on the bed.

Erik realized her cries were far too mournful to be platonic. He went to her, bent down on one knee and asked quietly, "Jeanne, did you have feelings for Monsieur Daae?"

She blushed and placed her hand over her mouth. "Oh, God," she sighed. She closed her eyes tightly and nodded.

Erik moved to sit next to her and caressed her back.

"I loved him so much, and now he's gone!" She whined against Erik's shoulder. "I'll never see him again, or hear his voice or violin. It feels so strange to miss someone who was never mine."

The master of the house kissed her hair and whispered comforting words, "It will be all right, now. You still have Christine, and Gustave will always be a part of her."

For a moment, Jeanne's tears stopped. She looked up at her new master and saw what she thought was goodness in his eyes. His icy stare had warmed, and she found herself being kissed. At first she resisted, but she gave into him as he pushed her backward on the bed.

He kissed her lightly, almost innocently, and then the urgency grew as she responded to him. The space between their bodies grew smaller and smaller, and when his hand ran up her side, she pushed him away.

He glared at her in disbelief, but quickly recovered his manners, saying, "I have offended you. Forgive me?"

Jeanne turned away, feeling ridiculous and embarrassed. "There is nothing to forgive, monsieur. You are only being chivalrous in your attempt to comfort me." A sob passed through her. "Such an unexpected kindness from someone in your position," she whispered in a manner she hoped would sound grateful.

Erik did not speak or move away.

"I do not mean to offend you by telling you this, but my heart was buried with Gustave Daae," she had added this in the hopes that it would ward Erik off, and be the cause for him to leave the room.

He did not misinterpret her meaning, but was not quite willing to give up his chase. "Close your eyes, Jeanne," he told her sternly.

She stared at him sheepishly before complying, and the next thing she heard, she did not believe.

She heard Gustave's voice, reciting a passage from Romans, "I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us."

Jeanne had gasped, and opened her eyes to see the words coming from Monsieur Roinoir's mouth. Erik knew he had improved his situation ten-fold with the use of mimicry of his old friend.

"How are you doing that?" She wondered in wide-eyed awe.

"I am an extraordinary mimic, I possess unparalleled vocal control," he explained, delivering the words as Gustav.

Her new master was surprised when Jeanne clutched to him, with her eyes closed, and demanded that he speak again.

He thought quickly, and indeed spoke again, "Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it."

A frantic smile spread across her face as she clasped Erik's hands. "Please, say my name, please?" She begged.

It was at this moment that Erik knew she was his if he wanted her, but the great thrill of seduction was indeed in the chase. She would give him anything to hear Gustave's voice speak her name. "Jeanne," he muttered in his own speech, "This has really gone too far. I should not have revealed such a talent; it was cruel of me to do so." He stood from the bed, and turned his back to her.

The young woman before him was exasperated. "Cruel? No, monsieur, no. It is such a marvelous kindness!" She attempted to assure him. "Do you not see what great ecstasy you have brought to my heart?"

He peered over his shoulder at the pleading girl; it was time to cease the pursuit. "Such a talent should be met with reciprocity, do you not agree, Jeanne?"

'Reciprocity' was a word that Jeanne only half understood, but for fear that Monsieur Roinoir would think her stupid and leave, she agreed wholeheartedly. She had never been so close to anyone as she had been with Gustave. His illness had destroyed them both; she had watched the man she silently devoted herself to suffer and die. To hear his voice, as it had been when he was healthy and strong, brought her pure happiness.

"Close your eyes for me, once more," Erik ordered gently.

Jeanne did not hesitate then; she was very much his puppet. She could feel her master stirring about the room, but her senses could not inform her as to where he was precisely. From behind her eyelids, she could sense that the lamps had been put out.

"Open them, now," she heard Gustave command from somewhere in front of her.

It was black as pitch in the room; the curtains were drawn and all light had been extinguished. She felt a hand slide slowly across her cheek.

"Grant me leave to kiss you," Gustave's voice whispered.

Jeanne remained silent; finally feeling a delayed sense of uncertainty.

A pair of powerful arms encircled her. "A kiss for his voice," he urged into her ear.

The heat from his breath provoked her to cry out, "Say my name and anything you want is yours!"

"Jeanne," he uttered readily, and placed his mouth upon that of the young woman before him. He observed an anxious quality in her passionless kiss. "Jeanne," he repeated her name again and again until she began to respond with more fervor. With each utterance, he fueled her delusion that Gustave was before her; it was an exciting game that he had never played before.

As her sweet little tongue darted shyly into his mouth, Erik became incensed. He broke away from the innocent little maid long enough to mount her slim form.

When she began to protest, he quickly put her at ease by playing his part, "Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings." His palms stroked her sides, and explored her hips.

She pressed herself into his hands, and did not protest when he forced her onto her stomach. Erik had thrown caution (concerning his intentions) to the wind. He grasped her hips and ground himself against her firm backside. While it served to arouse him, it would do little to satiate him. His left hand desperately searched for the buttons on the back of her gown, while his right took a fervent interest in massaging the right side of her bottom.

When all of the buttons were undone, Erik turned Jeanne to face him and pushed her gown off of her shoulders.

A hand arrested Erik's attempts, and he pulled away slightly.

"I know that you are not Gustave Daae," she told him soberly. "But I will take what I can of him, even if it is only an imitation of his voice."

Erik held his position, and felt a small measure of guilt. His arousal waned.

"Madame Renault warned me about you; she said you've been known to seduce the female staff." A small chuckle escaped her lips. "Did you think I didn't notice I was your prey?"

"That depends on if you didn't notice my prick against your ass," he retorted in a petulant manner.

"Grant me the small comfort of my loved one's voice and I will lay with you tonight," she propositioned.

A wild grin spread across Erik's face. "With pleasure," he moaned, before ripping Jeanne's dress down from her shoulders.

It seemed strange to him that after their agreement, Jeanne suddenly came to life. He even suspected that she might have been enjoying herself. She eagerly found the means to remove his clothing in the blackness. His lips found hers once more as she attempted to pull his shirt over his head. Jeanne's kiss was fervent, moist and carnal. He felt her tongue slip around the back of his teeth and pull him deeper into the embrace. If his erection had suffered moments earlier, it had become a distant memory.

Erik's hand stole up Jeanne's gown, but just as he was about to touch her, she jerked away from his hand.

"No," was all she said before he felt her fingers pulling at his trousers.

After she had released his arousal, there was a weighted pause.

"You may say whatever you want, but I want to hear Gustave say it," she instructed while caressing his thighs. And then he felt the very tip of her tongue on his member.

A shuddering sigh escaped him. "Oh, Jeanne. . ."

The hot and moist sensations surrounding him caused his to fall backward onto Jeanne's pillows. She followed him closely and continued to please him. She lapped at him, took him in her hand, and all the while he felt ecstasy.

When her mouth was on him once more, he gripped her hair and forced her down upon his shaft. "Sweet Jeanne, you've the mouth of a Persian whore!" He called out.

She stopped when he said this.

A groan erupted from Erik, "Why have you stopped?"

Erik heard her skirts rustling, and then felt her knees come to rest on either side of his thighs. He reached out into the darkness and found the smooth skin of her thighs. She was entirely bare before him. Jeanne began to grind against him, and he gripped her bottom tightly in response. After a few moments, she stopped again.

"Christ's sake, woman!" He cried at her stop and go tactics. When she pleased him it was incomparable, but when she stopped he felt like strangling her. Perhaps that was something she would have enjoyed.

Her hand found his, and placed it against the ever-moistening heat between her thighs. "You may touch me now," she instructed.

The position he was in did not lend well to fondling Jeanne, so Erik forced her beneath him once more and held her wrists above her head as he touched her. She cooed in appropriate response, and after a few moments she pulled him down on the top of her.

"Monsieur. . ." Was all she had to whisper and he understood that foreplay had come to an end.

Erik positioned himself at her entrance and slid inside of her with an unexpected lack of effort. He looked up in shock, but could not find her eyes in the darkness. There was a part of him that held the suspicion that Jeanne was indeed intact.

"Your path is well tread," he quipped as he worked his shaft in and out of her slowly, "I hadn't expected that."

Jeanne let out an amused scoff. "I suppose you weren't entirely wrong about me and the country boys," she admitted, with an air of shame in her voice.

A chuckle escaped from the man above her, and he rested his head against her neck and shoulder as he continued to drive himself into her. He imagined Jeanne on her back in the stables, and the muscles in his stomach began to tighten with extreme arousal. Then he imagined her being taken by one of the grooms and he felt a cold shiver run through his spine.

"Am I bigger than your country boys?" He demanded to know in a rough manner.

"What?" Jeanne was surprised by this sudden outburst.

Erik ground himself into her as deeply as he could manage. "Is my cock bigger than the country boys' that fucked you?" He almost shouted.

"Christine will hear you," she attempted to pacify him.

His hand closed around her throat and he spoke softly, in his own voice, "Answer me."

"Yes, you're much bigger," she answered with a sultry and coquettish air, "There is no comparison."

He grunted as he thrust forward again and again, hissing vile and heated perversions into Jeanne's ears, "Do I fill you better than those boys? Am I harder? Am I rougher? What do you feel when I fuck you, Jeanne?"

These questions bombarded her, but she merely responded with affected sighs, mewls and grunts of her own. This seemed to satisfy his curiosity, and his movements only increased. When his panting had reached a fevered pace, Jeanne knew he would finish soon. The tell-tale jerk of a man spending his seed began, and Erik took the back of her head forcefully in his hand and stared through the darkness into her eyes as he came inside of her. Their eyes alone were visible to each other in the darkness.

In the years to come, Erik Roinoir would only recall leaving the room immediately after he was finished, so that Jeanne would not cling to him, as many other servant girls had before.

Jeanne Leyre, however, would remember the true events that had occurred after the night that they had spent together in the Château du Roi Noir.

Despite what either person believed about that night, Monsieur Roinoir had left the château by the time the sun rose the next morning.


	4. Chapter 4: Homecoming

Author's Note: My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. It is NOT modern day; my story takes place in the mid-1800s. Within this story there will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in depth character profiles.

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><p><span>CHAPTER 4: Homecoming<span>

In the time that Erik Roinoir was away from his chateau, Jeanne and Christine grew more and more accustomed to their new home and way of life. The longer they were there, the more they explored together, both within the walls and around the grounds outside. Eventually, Christine's pain over the loss of her father became less and less, until Jeanne suspected she had forgotten him almost entirely. Their way of life remained hardly disrupted, until the return of Monsieur Roinoir.

Though he had promised to return as soon as he was able, Erik would not revisit Chateau du Roi Noir until 1878 — Five years after his departure.

* * *

><p>Erik made his way to the chateau in a carriage from Paris. He brought exotic Italian birds from the Opera Garnier along with him. The first fine lady was the soprano, Carlotta Guidicelli, and the second was the new prima ballerina, Cécile Sorel,<p>

"La Sorelli" to the public. Both women were extremely flattered at the prospect of being invited to their musical director's home. They each knew Erik Roinoir quite intimately, and as such were not fond of each other. However, they were each expecting that Monsieur Roinoir might soon make a proposal of marriage.

Carlotta and La Sorelli found themselves infatuated with their handsome and wealthy host. It was rare that such a man came along who was as admirable as he was influential.

Carlotta was a grasping and shrill sort of woman, and she wanted to snap Erik up before he considered her to be too old. She had expensive tastes, and when her career was over, she wanted to be taken care of. Erik was one of the few who tolerated her volatile antics within the opera house.

La Sorelli, on the other hand, was an extraordinarily kind young woman. In the opera house, she was something of a big sister to the younger ballerinas, and they loved her in return. Her soft heart had opened to Erik when he offered to assist her after hours when she was merely a member of the corps. He insisted that he saw a spark within her, and if she allowed him to, he would bring it out. At first, he would watch her dance, and instruct as to what she must improve upon to impress the managers. Later, he began inviting her to private dinners, and expressed his great fondness for her. She was charmed by him, and quickly found that she adored him.

It was not long after she admitted her love to him that it was announced that she would be replacing Carolina Bucher as the principal ballerina for the next production. In a fit of passion and with the purest intentions of love, La Sorelli gave herself over to Erik later that very night. She expected that a marriage proposal would follow soon afterward, and when it did not, she became quite anxious. Those in the opera house often said of La Sorelli that while she had the fullest heart, she had the emptiest head.

Unfortunately, for both women, Erik had no plans to propose to either of them. Instead, he had devised a game in which he would pit them against each other for his approval. He knew that they would try their very best to please him in his home, in order to win his affections. Carlotta was very experienced when it came to pleasing a man, and for this, Erik tolerated her spinster-like form. La Sorelli suffered from inexperience, but made up for it with sheer, breathtaking beauty . . . and a body that would bend in any way that he pleased.

As the carriage turned onto the main road, Erik immediately noticed that things were not as he had left them. The bushes along the road flourished with red roses, as they never had before, and they had been expertly pruned all the way up to the house. A line of chestnut trees had been planted near the lake, and a white gazebo had been installed nearby them. A large garden of both flowers and fare was planted next to the East wing of the chateau. The nearer they came to the house, Erik began to realize that the front doors had been changed. They were a lighter wood, with more inviting images carved into them.

The dark and gothic building he had left was transformed into a bright and welcoming home. His guests had gasped at the beauty of the ornate front doors. They complimented the grounds and façade at length, and La Sorelli hoped that they might take tea in the gazebo the next day.

Erik graciously accepted their compliments, and tried not to let his annoyance show. He wondered what sort of money it had taken to transform his chateau, and where it had come from. He had sent a letter to Madame Renault, with the details of his arrival, but it appeared that she had not seen fit to wait for him. The footman hopped off of the carriage as it stopped, and escorted the ladies out. When Erik exited, he was fuming. Not a single servant was present to attend them.

He held out a handful of francs to the footman and driver for them to bring the bags inside.

"I apologize, mademoiselles, my housekeeper should have been here to receive you, but we shall make our own way," he explained to his confused companions.

La Sorelli piped up first, "I am sure we can manage." She had meant it to be reassuring, but Erik shot her a condescending glare.

The footman opened the doors for them, and the women rushed inside to view the chateau. The front hall was finely decorated and immaculately lit. Undeniable warmth beckoned them inward. Flowers from the garden outside were in vases along the grand staircase, and the fragrance from them filled the hall. A chandelier had been hung above the staircase; light reflected and glinted beautifully throughout the space. Carlotta was speechless, and La Sorelli held her hand over her heart.

Erik's irritation continued to grow, but he was pleased that his guests were impressed.

"Your housekeeper is a genius, Monsieur Roinoir!" La Sorelli exclaimed.

Suddenly, a streak of white and yellow came tearing past them from a doorway to the right. Erik caught the child brusquely by the arm, and held her in place.

"Who the devil are you?" He demanded to know. It was a little girl he had never laid eyes on before. She was dressed in a little white frock, and her blonde hair was held back in a loose plait.

"Mama told me I ought not speak with strangers," the little imp spat back at him and writhed in his grasp.

Erik did not loosen his hold. "Who is your mama, and what are you doing running about my home!" He nearly shouted at her.

The little girl's face turned white. "I'm Marguerite and my mama is Antoinette Giry, Monsieur Roinoir. My mama is Lotte's governess," the girl informed him sheepishly and became still. "I apologize for my disrespect, I did not know you on sight."

He released her and she curtsied.

"Where is the housekeeper, child?" He inquired to her softly.

"Well, we were having a game of hide-and-seek, and they were all outside." Marguerite fidgeted at this admission, and bit her lip before she continued, "I wasn't supposed to come in to hide, but I did it anyway."

Erik scanned the room in frustration, before he spoke again, "Go on and hide, Marguerite."

The girl scampered out in a flash.

"I shall show you to your rooms, mademoiselles. As you acquaint yourselves, I shall seek out Madame Renault," he instructed them, and then led them into the West wing. He had them situated so that there was an empty room between them. The women wondered at this situation, but said nothing.

As he exited La Sorelli's room, he made his way out of the building, and around the side of the small chateau. A closer view of the garden and gazebo made him realize how truly idyllic they were, and he found himself smiling.

A figure suddenly emerged from behind the building, with its hands outstretched. It was Jeanne; she was blindfolded for the game of hide-and-seek. She was draped in a lovely spring gown that Erik recalled having sent two years before that. It was light blue, and the small train ghosted delicately across the grass. A wide smile was open upon her face, and he could hear her laughing from 15 yards away.

"Lotte! Meg! I shall find you soon enough!" She called out, and stumbled slightly. Another laugh escaped her, and she continued her search. "I had forgotten how good the two of you are at this game!"

Erik approached her quietly, wishing to surprise the nanny. He placed himself in front of the path she was taking and waited.

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><p>Jeanne had been stumbling around blindfolded for 20 minutes, and was realizing how difficult that made finding the girls. Christine would call out every-so-often to alert her to her presence. As she moved forward, her hands suddenly collided with a tall and soft object. The abrupt contact had caused her to somewhat collapse into the form in front of her.<p>

After a moment of confusion, her smiled reappeared. "Philippe, we had not expected you today," she admitted with a shy quiver in her voice.

"You're fortunate that I am not Philippe then, Jeanne," he replied coolly. He wondered who this "Philippe" was, but did not dwell on it.

She recoiled from him immediately and tore off her blindfold. It was a pleasure to see that her wide eyes carried the same gravity as they had five years before.

"Monsieur Roinoir!" She exclaimed. "My apologies, I hadn't been expecting you."

"Why the devil not! I sent Madame Renault explicit information and instructions pertaining to my return, and well in advance!" He barked at her, and her face went white.

Jeanne dropped her blindfold to the ground and looked sadly up at Monsieur Roinoir for a moment before replying, "Madame Renault passed away from cancer of the jaw two years ago."

The words were a heavy blow to Erik, Madame Renault had been the housekeeper at the chateau his entire life. She had watched over him often when he was a child.

He glared at Jeanne. "I don't understand; why wasn't I notified?"

"I sent you dozens of letters over the last three years, since she had first taken sick. She could not write them herself, monsieur. I always assumed you were too busy to reply, and accepted the new arrangements," Jeanne explained. She had not expected him to react to the death of a servant in such a manner.

Erik ran a hand over his hair as he realized what had happened. "My secretary did not know to accept letters from you; I never received them." He wondered what manner of disrepair his chateau had fallen into in Madame Renault's absence. "Who's been running my household these past two years?" He demanded to know.

Jeanne stood up tall and raised her chin before answering, "I have, monsieur."

He merely scoffed at her and began walking back toward the entrance.

After a moment of disbelief, Jeanne chased after him. "Madame Renault taught me how to care for this household very well, monsieur!" She called after him in assurance. "She was on bed rest for six months before she passed, and in that time, she trained me! She trusted me!" She continued.

Erik turned on her swiftly, and she barely had time to stop herself in front of him. "Why wouldn't she trust you, Jeanne?" He inquired softly. "You're such a sweet and obliging girl."

Jeanne swallowed noticeably. "I have done only my best to care for your home, as well as your ward. Please do not dismiss me or doubt my dedication to excellence."

A grin lifted the corner of Erik's mouth. "Only Madame Renault would have thought of a reply like that." He suddenly placed his hand behind Jeanne's head and pulled her against his chest. He kissed her hair lightly and assured her, "Your place is secure, Jeanne."

He then pulled away from her, saying, "But if you've ruined anything, I'll ruin you."

Jeanne was speechless at this.

"Now, arrange for a meal. Assemble Gustav's daughter and her governess. Her daughter may attend as well, providing she is a well-mannered child. I want you to show me how you keep my house and how you provide for guests, of which I have two," he instructed her, and she nodded.

"As you wish, Monsieur Roinoir," was her only reply. She stood before him with her head bowed.

"You're dismissed, Jeanne," Erik declared as he made his way into the chateau.

* * *

><p>Jeanne sprinted back around the house and was about to call for the girls when her breath caught in her chest. She was very nervous that Monsieur Roinoir would not be satisfied with her performance. As she gathered herself, she silently hoped that he would never acknowledge their last encounter from five years before.<p>

Suddenly, Christine revealed herself from behind a tree, and saw that the game had come to an end. Before Jeanne could collect herself, Christine skipped toward her. The girl understood her nanny's panicked expression and took hold of Jeanne's hand.

"Jeanne, what is wrong?" The child wondered.

Jeanne shook her head and forced a smile. "Nothing at all, little Lotte. The master of the house has returned, and we must make ourselves ready for him. You will go up to your room and pull out your very best dress," she instructed. "I will follow soon after to help you, but first I must find Madame Giry and Meg."

Christine's stomach was a flutter with excitement at the news on Monsieur Roinoir's return. She remembered little of him, except for a smile that gave her at the dinner table five years before. Though she was not certain this was an actual memory, she was thrilled to finally meet him once more. After the stories Philippe had told her, she expected a brilliant sort of man.

Jeanne motioned toward the chateau with her hand, "Off you go!"

The girl rushed inside, a flurry of gaiety and excitement.

When Jeanne entered the chateau, she took a deep breath before venturing to find Madame Giry. It was a Saturday, and therefore it was safe to assume that she would be in the library. As she opened the door to the library, Jeanne heard a flickering of pages and knew she had hit her mark.

"Dear Jeanne, is there anything you need," Madame Giry asked from a chair by the unlit fireplace.

Jeanne smoothed her skirts. "Indeed, I do, Antoinette. The master has returned."

"Meg has just informed me," Madame Giry replied.

Meg Giry came out from behind her mother's chair and waved at Jeanne.

"Well, he has asked that the two of you attend dinner tonight. I must ask that you wear your very best, and that we are all on our best behavior," Jeanne informed the governess. It was odd to give orders to a woman who was 10 years her senior, but she tried to do so kindly, and she had never received a complaint.

Madame Giry stood before answering, "Of course, we will go to prepare ourselves now. Is there anything else you require, Jeanne? You look flushed."

"Nothing, thank you, Antoinette," Jeanne replied and left the room. She then went to the cook and the servants, and asked for their very best service to be provided that night. When she had finished with them, she finally went up to Christine's room.

Christine was sprawled out on the bed in her shift, awaiting her nanny. When Jeanne came through the door, Christine smiled and rolled off the bed to greet her.

"I've set my clothes on the bed. Is this one good enough?" Christine wondered, afraid to displease the master of the house.

Jeanne scanned quickly over the dark blue gown. "Oh, it's lovely Christine, now lift up your arms." Jeanne slid the tiny gown over Christine's head, and pulled it down snugly. Afterward, she rolled her white stockings up each leg, and buckled her black shoes on tightly.

She affixed a few bows in the child's hair and declared her finished.

"Now try not to wrinkle it before dinner. Stay in your room and play, while I get ready," as Jeanne told her this, she softly drew her hand across Christine's cheek.

Inside her room that adjoined Christine's, Jeanne splashed water on her face and stripped out of her light blue gown. She caught herself staring at her figure in the mirror. As she ran her hand along her hip, she wondered if there was anything about her that was still attractive. Her hands rested on her hips as she considered the width of her waist, she was waspy indeed, and knew well from fashion plates that this was a virtue in high society. She found her sudden vanity was less inclined to please her master, but more to please his guests.

She began rummaging through her armoire for the finest gown Monsieur Roinoir had ever sent her. It was cut from a dark sapphire-blue satin, embroidered with fine crystals and silver thread. The thin sleeves rested on her upper arms, and a bustle jutted out from the backside. The neckline plunged, and the waist nipped in tightly. As she buttoned the back of the gown, it seemed to meld with her form, revealing every curve she possessed.

When she sat at her small vanity, she began to lightly apply the cosmetics there. She twisted her hands in her hair and fixed it atop her head in a loose mass of ginger curls, allowing a single curl to fall down across her neck. The last detail was a small pendant on a thin silver chain that she had received from a dear friend. The pendant itself was in the form of a Celtic knot.

With a final glance at the mirror, Jeanne began to steel herself, and exited back into Christine's room.

Christine was spinning around with her arms stretched wide, and stumbled when she spotted Jeanne out of the corner of her eye. She stared at Jeanne for a few moments. The girl had considered her to be the prettiest nanny she had seen, but she saw her differently in her finest gown.

"You look like the fashion plates Philippe brings me from Paris!" Christine cried happily and danced around her nanny.

Jeanne took hold of Christine's arm and hushed her, "Now, little Lotte, you are very kind, but please be on your very best behavior tonight. I would like for us to excel at pleasing the master, for if we do not, I might be sent away."

A frightened gasp escaped the child. "NO! He couldn't! He wouldn't!" She exclaimed.

"And he doesn't want to," Jeanne explained, "but you have to show him how well we do here." She hated to bend the truth in such a way, but Christine could be spirited in a manner that members of society would not find charming. While she had also considered that little Meg could be a handful, Madame Giry would surely see to that. If she did not, Christine would only appear better behaved by comparison.

Jeanne darted out after calming Christine, and went to see that the preparations were in order. Finding everything to be exactly as she had ordered, she smiled to herself and took a small glass of white wine before dinner.

She raced back up to collect Christine, and they made their way to the dining room, hand in hand, just as they had five years before. As they approached the doors, Jeanne could hear the master and his guests conserving jovially inside. Just as Christine was about to push open the doors, Jeanne pulled her back. In a fit of nerves, Jeanne put her eye to the crack between the door and saw the guests Erik had brought.

Two women.

That was something she had never suspected. She assumed they would be businessmen or managers. One was an older, thicker woman, and the other was a dainty thing, unparalleled in beauty. Jeanne had dressed to impress a group of men, and suddenly she felt severely overdressed.

While she was thinking if she should go back to her room and change, Madame Giry had entered the hallway from behind, and before she could stop the governess, she murmured, "We had best go in now," and threw open the door.

She gazed up slowly with slight worry on her face, but only saw Monsieur Roinoir stand from his chair and bow in their direction. The beauty on his left also stood and curtsied gracefully. Jeanne grinned, the beauty did not realize all of them, except Christine, were beneath her curtsies. The older woman stared at them in slight annoyance.

Erik made his way toward them, welcoming them as he approached, "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Madame Giry." He took the governess's hand in his and placed a curt and proper kiss on top of it.

"And you as well, Monsieur Roinoir," she replied with a tip of her head.

He stepped in front of Jeanne. "Jeanne," he whispered so that only she might hear, "A pleasure. . . always."

She blushed and looked away, hoping the guests had not seen.

Erik knelt before the two little girls. He inspected Christine closely after a five year absence. Indeed, she was a beautiful child. Dark curls adorned her head, she had her father's soft brown eyes. He guessed that she would grow to be a spectacularly heartrending beauty.

Then his eyes drifted to little Meg. Her coloring was the opposite of Christine's, her blonde hair was nearly white, and her bright blue eye's were slightly screwed up in what looked like determination. It was very hard for her to stand still, Erik warranted. Despite this, Meg was a pretty child.

After this moment of examination, he grasped the girls in either arm, and announced to them that he was Monsieur Roinoir, the master of the house. He spun them around, one resting on each hip, before he sat them down at the dining table.

Madame Giry gave Jeanne an odd look, because Jeanne had always told her that Monsieur Roinoir was a hard man. So far, he had seemed very charming.

Meg rose up on her knees in her chair and was about to clap her hands in excitement, before her mother shot her a glance that forbade such an ill-mannered action.

Jeanne and Madame Giry went to sit, but before they could, Erik intervened, "Please, come sit nearer with my guests and I. Jeanne, you will sit to my right."

They did as he asked, and as they reached their seats, Erik pulled out Antoinette's chair, and then Jeanne's.

As she was sitting, Jeanne felt Erik's cheek brush her own as he stood. She glanced up quickly at the guests across the table and saw the older woman glaring, and the beauty smiling distantly.

Before Erik sat, he introduced everyone. "Madame Giry, Jeanne, Mamselles Daae and Giry, I would like to introduce you to the incomparable La Carlotta Guidicelli, the opera house's soprano, and the beautiful La Sorelli, our prima ballerina."

Meg shrieked in excitement, "Real celebrities!" She quieted after a glare from her mother.

Jeanne beamed at them, "It is such a pleasure to be acquainted with you both. I have heard such wonderful stories of your triumphs on the stage."

Sorelli was excited and flattered by Jeanne's admission. "Thank you so much, perhaps you will come and see us!" The beauty offered kindly.

"As if a servant could afford such a thing," Carlotta spat offhandedly, and scoffed as she took a sip of champagne.

Jeanne had not expected the woman to be so outwardly nasty. She could plainly tell that dining with children and servants was a great blow to her dignity.

"I suppose I could not," Jeanne agreed.

Carlotta looked up in mild surprise at Jeanne's agreement with her.

Erik watched his plan unfold. He had realized the moment that Jeanne had entered, she would become an unwitting pawn in his game. She was wearing the finest gown he had sent her, one that was far more expensive than Carlotta's. He had noticed that Carlotta suspected Jeanne was something more than a housekeeper to him. To fan the fires, Erik took up Jeanne's hand in his own. She tried to pull away, but he held it there.

"Of course, Jeanne, I will send for you when the new production opens. You will have a seat in my box, we could watch them together," Erik offered, lightly caressing her hand.

At this, even Sorelli's suspicion rose. Her brow furrowed at the tender touch he placed on Jeanne's hand. It was a touch she knew well.

"That wouldn't be very proper, would it?" Jeanne wondered as she finally wrenched her hand from his gasp. "I wouldn't want to incite any rumors," she said pointedly at the women across from her. She was trying to be kind and courteous, but her master was making it exceedingly difficult.

Madame Giry viewed this display as if the others were on a stage, and she could plainly see that the master of the house was trying to provoke jealousy in his guests. Unfortunately, at the expense of dear Jeanne.

"Nonsense," Erik responded, "I bought you that gown, did I not? Does that incite?" He bated her.

Jeanne looked down for a moment, then up at Sorelli. "You must be the most graceful woman in France," she asserted, trying to avoid Erik's question.

Sorelli blushed for a moment, hoping as well that Erik would stop whatever game he was playing at. After a tense moment of silence, a small voice piped up from further down the table.

"Is it inciting that you bought me my gown, monsieur?" Little Christine asked him. She wore a sweet look of confusion upon her face.

"Not at all, my little ward," Erik replied. Her innocence had interrupted his plan, and he found himself continuing, "Do you enjoy your gowns, Christine?" He asked her.

A great grin burst out over Christine's mouth, "Oh, I do love them very much! I sent you letters to thank you."

"Of course, and I cherish them dearly," he lied, never having seen them. "Such a dear little girl," he said as an aside to his guests from the opera house.

"I won't be able to wear the big necklace until I'm older though," she remarked in disappointment.

Jeanne's eyes shot toward Erik in a fright.

"Which necklace?" He asked Christine softly.

"The great big one," she motioned with her hands.

Jeanne shook her head at Christine. She even mouthed "stop" at her.

But Christine was only looking at Erik. "I remember when we opened the case. It had Jeanne's gown in it, and on top there was a thin box that said 'For Jeanne'. Inside was a great big necklace, with diamonds and sapphires. I remember wishing I could get something so pretty, and Jeanne said that it was a present for me, but you were trying to surprise me."

In her innocence, the child had fueled Erik's game better than he could have dreamed. His eyes drifted to Jeanne, whose head was bowed in great embarrassment.

Christine continued, "She said I couldn't wear it until I'm sixteen, because it was far too big. Then she put it away in my cupboard. I do wish I could wear it now," she mused.

"Jeanne is right, you must wait until you are sixteen. I spent a small fortune on that necklace, we wouldn't want it tarnished," Erik replied.

Carlotta's face had gone bright red in anger, and Sorelli was looking at her lap, with tears in her eyes. Madame Giry viewed their reactions, and thought that perhaps the master of the house had gone too far. She wasn't sure if had wanted to make the women jealous, or if he wanted them to despise him. Jeanne was trembling, and so Antoinette took her hand under the table in an attempt to calm her.

Erik was not finished making his guests uncomfortable, and targeted Jeanne once more, "It appears you have found something else to replace your necklace of diamonds and sapphires, Jeanne," he said this so that only the adults might hear, and took the bauble on the chain around her neck in his hand.

"It is from a dear friend, monsieur," she told him in a clipped manner.

"A sailor's knot," he observed. "Who is this friend?"

She tugged the pendant out of his hand. "Just a neighbor, monsieur."

He chuckled, "Why, our only neighbor is the Comte!"

His plaything looked up at him with smug hatred on her face. Suddenly, the other guests were forgotten.

"The Comte Philippe de Chagny gave you that necklace?" Erik asked, seething.

"Philippe brings us lots of things," Christine answered from the other end of the table.

"Quiet, child!" Erik shouted at her, and she gaped at him in wide-eyed horror.

"Yes, he gave it to me. Sometimes the Comte brings his young brother Raoul to play with Christine and Meg. They even have lessons together sometimes. We take coffee in the gazebo, or in Philippe's parlor while the children play," Jeanne explained with relish. It was Erik's turn to feel humiliated.

"Where did you meet him?" Erik spat.

"I'd seen him on the grounds a few times, and then every Sunday in church. We are all in the choir. One day he asked me if the children might be allowed to play together. I accepted, and they have visited ever since." Jeanne grinned. "They're both so lovely."

Erik leaned back in his chair and then spoke with acid on his tough, "Your charms know no bounds, Jeanne."

Jeanne leaned back as well, and retorted with a finely sharpened jab herself, "You should talk, two of the most beautiful women in Paris are at your side, and all you can do is talk jealous nonsense at the housekeeper."

Madame Giry snorted. She had hoped Jeanne would not take all of his abuse.

"If you'll all excuse me, I'm not feeling well. Good night," Jeanne announced this quietly, and stalked from the dining room.

Erik sighed and looked to his guests. After a moment of sputtering, Carlotta launched herself out of her seat, and shrieked, "BASTARDO!" at him before rushing out in an indignant fury. He heard a vase break as she thumped up the stairs.

Sorelli remained with a tear-stained face. He caught her eyes and smiled apologetically at her. Her sadness softened, and when he caressed her upper arm with the back of his hand, it was as if the last ten minutes had never happened.

Madame Giry watched the manipulation of the girl in disgust. Jeanne had not fully explained the vileness their master possessed.

After a moment of this intimate display, Monsieur Roinoir suggested that they retire to the sitting room.

* * *

><p>Once what remained of the party had moved into the sitting room, Madame Giry found herself packed into a love seat with both of the children clinging to her in fear of the master. Erik and Sorelli were seated in a pair of chairs across from them.<p>

"Would you like for me to play something?" Erik asked Sorelli.

"Something from the newest opera!" She cried happily.

Despite Christine's fear, she was very excited to hear the music that Philippe had always told her about.

The master of the house sat in front of the keyboard, and began to play. Such beautiful sounds filled the air, and the women in the room could not help but relax to it.

Christine found herself drifting off to the melody.

". . . Just promise me that sometimes. . . " Christine sang softly.

Erik's head snapped toward her.

"How do you know this song?" he questioned her.

She shook herself out of her stupor to answer, "Philippe saw your opera three times, he taught us to sing some of the songs."

"Well, come here, child. Sing for me," Erik beckoned her forward. He held out his hand to her, and Madame Giry gave her a reluctant push.

He began to play again, and Christine quietly joined in.

"Sing louder for me, I can hardly hear you," he instructed her.

"Think of all the things we've shared and seen.  
>Don't think about the way things might have been.<br>Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned.  
>Think of me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. . . "<p>

Erik was astounded by the sound coming from the tiny vessel. Despite her youth, her voice carried beautifully. The song of a cherub emanated from his young ward. As the song ended, Sorelli put a hand over her heart.

"She could replace Carlotta tomorrow," Sorelli joked.

"You shall have a vocal tutor, starting next week, Christine. Would you like that?" Erik asked.

Christine glanced over her shoulder at Madame Giry.

The Madame nodded her head.

"I would like that very much, monsieur," Christine mustered her best smile. "Thank you, monsieur."

Erik chuckled, "You are welcome, little ward."

"If I am to receive singing lessons, could Meg have ballet lessons? She wants to be just like La Sorelli, but there aren't any schools around Presles," Christine inquired innocently.

Meg darted off the couch to stand by Christine, and showed Sorelli how she could turn out her toes. She did a quick pirouette and Sorelli laughed.

"You must come to the opera house so I can teach you, little Meg," Sorelli flattered her. "In that pirouette, I saw a great dancer."

Meg's jaw dropped in surprise, and she ran to her mother. "Mama, mama, can I go, can I go?"

Madame Giry took her daughter by the arms and said softly, "We will talk about it in the morning. I think it's time you are off to bed. Christine, you as well."

Erik stood from the console. "I will escort Christine to her room, Madame." He turned to Sorelli. "You may retire, and I will come to you in time."

Sorelli blushed. "Good night to you all," she bade, and left the room.

Madame Giry was beginning to understand to oppressiveness of her master. He seemed to fill the room with his presence, suffocating all who remained with him. She stood with Meg's hand in her own, and went toward the door. "Good night, monsieur," she called over her shoulder.

"My apologies for any unpleasantness you may have experienced on my part tonight. I can appear unkind in pursuit of mischief, and there are many bystanders," Erik attempted to amend his earlier actions to the only person who he had not harmed.

"Tell that to Jeanne," Antoinette whispered and was gone.

When Christine placed her hand in Erik's, he was shaken from the thought of what he'd done to Jeanne.

"Get thee to bed, my cherub," he spoke softly to his ward as they too left for bed.

Christine walked quickly to keep up with man who towered above her. She was infatuated with him once more after the promise of singing lessons. She slowed down only to ask, "Why did you treat Jeanne so poorly at dinner?"

A dry laugh escaped him. "It is a game that we play, Jeanne and I. I think we're getting very good at it. We pretend to be unkind to one another, but inside. . . we feel. . . connected."

"The necklace was really for her, wasn't it?" Christine wondered.

"It was, my cherub."

"Do you love her? I want her to be in love. She is lonely sometimes," she admitted to him. "I saw her cry in my room once when she was picking up my dolls, I was hiding in my cupboard from Meg. 'My love,' she was crying, 'My love'."

"Jeanne is a nanny and a housekeeper, my cherub. One day you will understand what that means for us, but for now, you will go to bed," he finished as he opened her door. They both entered, and Erik went around her bed to Jeanne's door. He opened it, but found that she was not inside. "Sleep well, I must be off," he said and suddenly, Christine was alone in her room, wondering who would help her change into her nightclothes.

* * *

><p>He searched the chateau wildly for Jeanne. A light coming from beneath the library's door alerted him to her presence. After pushing open the door, he saw that Jeanne had fallen asleep in a large chair by the fire. He slowly made his way to her in the hope that he would not wake her.<p>

As she still slept, he reached out to touch her face. After a few moments of caressing, Jeanne jolted awake, and and slapped his hand away.

"Do not presume to touch me, monsieur!" She cried and shrunk back from him.

He recoiled, and stood above her. "It is nothing new to me," Erik taunted her. "Suddenly, the very touch of my hand repulses you. I had thought you would have missed your master in his absence."

"You could not have treated me more shamefully before your guests! Poor Sorelli was in tears after your games!" She shouted at him, disregarding his previous statement.

Erik waved his hand dismissively at the mention of his guests. "They're playthings, nothing more," he told her. "What feelings do they have? Actresses are all the same — they want a leading role and so they will do whatever it takes to get it. They get the part, and I have another notch to add to my bedpost. If they grow attached, they are at fault for their own foolishness."

Jeanne shook her head, unable to believe a naive girl like Sorelli would be ambitious enough to sleep with a man to improve her standing at the opera house. She also realized that Monsieur Roinoir had not explained why he had to include her in his games.

"What about me?" She asked him. "You may not care about them, but I want you to explain why you have treated me with such disrespect."

He laughed. "Why, you're a plaything too, I just happen to enjoy you a great deal more." As he spoke, he bent down and kneeled before her. "I plan to keep you, Jeanne. You're the only woman I've ever had who didn't beg me to take her again. When I look in your eyes I see anything but desire. I can dry Sorelli's tears with a stroke of my hand, and calm Carlotta's rage with a long, slow fuck. However, there is little I can conceive of that would bring longing for me into your heart."

Jeanne leaned toward him in her chair, and brought her lips toward him.

"Nothing," she whispered. Erik turned his face away from her and sighed heavily. "There is nothing you could do to put yourself in my heart, monsieur."

After a moment of rubbing his eyes, Erik chuckled half-heartedly. "Perhaps that's why I'm so fond of you, Jeanne. You wouldn't dare fall for my charms. You possess a stronger mind than most Parisian women, and you are without their incessant needs. You are self-sufficient and without agenda. The women upstairs would murder to have me as their husband, and they are both rather certain I will propose marriage this weekend."

He laughed again, and Jeanne shuddered as she shook her head in pity at the poor women. She knew he would not marry them, he was only toying with them. Suddenly, it dawned on her how lucky they would both be not to have him, and she smiled.

"Are you as pleased with me as I am with myself?" He wondered, witnessing her small smile.

"They'll be free of you," she answered with a mocking grin," Eventually."

Monsieur Roinoir grasped an armchair that was nearby and pulled it toward her as he sat. "How is it that your harshest words do not seem to wound me, dear Jeanne?" He asked with a sigh. "They tire me, perhaps, but they do not hurt me. Which is good for you, because I could hardly keep a servant who was cruel to me."

Jeanne thought very seriously for a moment, and considered the facets of her relationship with Monsieur Roinoir. Though brief, it had always been driven by a fierce amount of affection (kind or otherwise) on his part, and tolerance on her end. She remembered the night that they had shared together, and how he had clung to her afterward. He had only left her when she feigned that she heard Christine crying. In the time that he was gone, he had constantly sent her a stream of gowns and trinkets and absurdly expensive jewelry. All of this without ever returning to sample her favors or sending a single letter.

When she came out of her thoughts, she gazed at him with a sober and serious look upon her face. "My words could never hurt you, monsieur. I believe you are far too in love with me for them to do so."

All of the mischievous mirth drained from Monsieur Roinoir's eyes.

"You never received a single letter from me when Madame Renault was dying — and yet, without provocation, you have sent me unseemly amounts of clothes and gifts," as Jeanne accused him, she was pleased with his inability to look her in the eye. "At first I assumed you thought of me as some sort of mistress, closed-up in your chateau, awaiting your return with great obedience. Though I recalled the night I let you into my bed, and I remembered how you didn't leave when you had finished with me. You _wouldn't _leave me. I had to invent that I'd heard a quiet weeping from Christine's room before you would release your hold on me."

Erik was shaking slightly in embarrassment or anger, and his face was beginning to flush. It was a sweet revenge for Jeanne, who found she did not care to be made the fool.

"I realize now that perhaps I captured more of you than I first thought. Have you truly left your heart with a simple country girl, Monsieur Roinoir?" The question left a tingle on the tip of Jeanne's tongue, and she thought perhaps this barb would carry too much poison.

His head fell back against the chair, and he whispered, "You couldn't be simple if you tried."

It would have been easier for both of them to have laughed in her face, and left for bed. However, he had responded too slowly; he had been too surprised by how succinctly she had discovered him. In their brief night together, he had truly enjoyed the time they spent, which was not something he could often do. He had certainly not fallen in love with her, but he had been reminded of his youth, a time when he fell madly in love with any girl he set his eyes upon.

So perhaps he had loved what she represented. She reminded him of a time when a look was all he needed to pull a woman. When he took his position at the Opera Garnier, women expected him to shower them with extravagance. After he left Jeanne and Christine, and returned to Paris, he found his thoughts returning to the sweet girl who declared she had buried her heart with another man. A girl who had asked for nothing but comfort, when he had been prepared to offer much more.

As time passed in Paris, he found himself imagining his conquests were the country girl in his chateau. It was not a common practice for him, and after a time, he found it too distracting. He would take women out less frequently, and considered returning to the chateau to see the object of his preoccupation. Then he had an idea.

Erik began sending Jeanne expensive gifts, and imagined that she had grown accustomed to extravagance. He saw her waiting like a fool for the packages to be delivered. He fantasized that she grew spoiled like the rest of them, and for a time, it worked. Eventually, he became overwhelmed, wondering if she cared for his gifts. He wondered if Jeanne knew that his heart had replaced the one she had buried. Now he had his answer, and he envisioned her twisting a blade into her chest to get at it.

A few moments went by, and the crackling fire was the only sound in the room.

"If I said I believed in kindred spirits, how would you reply?" Erik asked her when he had regained some of his composure.

"That you're lying," she replied.

He tried again. "Would it be so appalling—that I care for you?" His rough and cool demeanor was furthering chipping away with each word.

"It is enough to see how you treat Carlotta and Sorelli, but that you would act so despicably toward the woman you claim to care for is unspeakable," she answered. "If you had ever been honestly kind to me, I might think differently."

"I never meant to harm you, Jeanne. My greatest fault is my personality, which is all of me. Or at least what you can perceive. My pride is too great to admit any real affection for you, but I will confess that I have thought of you four of the five years I've been away," he declared all of this very swiftly, and raked a hand through his hair afterwards.

_I only remembered your existence today,_ Jeanne thought to say, but stopped herself. The game was over, she had won. In the winning, she found no reward, only the shame and sadness of her opponent.

"If I released you, would it help?" Jeanne asked him. Her voice was gentle, as if she were speaking to Christine. Her fire and ice would kill him.

Erik conjured an image in his head. He saw her opening a little door in her breast, and after peering inside, there was no heart at all. She then leaned forward to him, and opened the corresponding door in his chest, which was also empty. In this vision, he was reminded of the perfect Jeanne he had created in his head. They would always be two of a kind.

"If you released me, I would die," he had responded in the middle of his vision.

When he came back to his senses, he saw that Jeanne was covering her mouth and sobbing. He was transported immediately to the first time he had seen her cry. After a brief moment, he returned to the present.

"I am sorry, for how I have treated you this night!" Jeanne bawled. "Forgive me, I did not think on how my words would affect you — I only mean — I meant to hurt you, but not like this." Honest remorse flowed through her, and she felt sorrow for him. Still, she could not love him.

He placed his hands lightly over hers. "Are these tears for me?" He asked, amazed.

Jeanne nodded. "They are all I may give you," she admitted. After a moment of his hands stroking over her own, she bolted up from the chair and ran toward the door.

"STOP!" Erik shouted, and then continued like lightning, "If I'm to survive another moment, you must stop!"

She stared at him with reddened eyes, and found that his had taken on a similar quality.

"I have a gift for you. The last gift I will ever present to you, if you so wish it. I only ask that you claim it, and then you will hear no more nonsense from me, malicious or. . . otherwise." When he had finished, he looked away. After he swiped his sleeve across his eyes, they returned to her. His voice had been trembling.

Jeanne nodded. "Of course, I would be honored to receive your gift, monsieur," she attempted to sound grateful.

He went to her side, and offered his arm. She placed her fingers lightly in the crook of his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the library.

"I brought it from along from Paris. It's been sent up with all of my belongings," he explained, as they approached the hallway leading to the master suite.

"Please, tell me it isn't too grand of a gift, monsieur. I—I have already cost you so much, it seems." It was odd to pity a man she had hated so severely only moments ago. It was worse that he had barely defended himself.

"It is a mere trifle, if you that is what you wish," he replied, cryptically. Some of his levity had returned to him, and it put Jeanne more at ease. She felt slightly less like a heartless succubi.

She could hear thumping and shouting from the room to the left of Monsieur Roinoir's suite as they approached it. Carlotta could clearly be heard swearing in Italian.

Erik chuckled quietly, and put his finger to his lips.

He opened the door to his suite, and Jeanne was shocked to see it filled with luggage. She had entered the suite countless times to clean and oversee the changing of draperies and to take inventory of belongings. Though she had never seen it occupied. The enormous four poster bed was covered in suitcases, linen bags and boxes. Deep, sumptuous reds and ornate golds made up the rooms decor. Elaborate carvings of nude men and women were laid into the bed posts.

The master of the house pulled away from her, and began fumbling haphazardly through some of the suitcases. She stood at the threshold, and waited. His agitation grew visibly when he could not find what he was looking for. He smiled at her in a childish manner, begging for her patience.

"Allow me to help you," she requested, and stepped toward him sheepishly. "You're out of sorts, and I am at fault."

He nodded, and gestured for her to start looking in the cases on the other side of the bed. "It's a small box," he told her, while still looking himself. "About _so_ large — " he held his fingers out to indicate a box around two inches both wide and tall. He flung a case to the floor, and began searching through a hat box.

Jeanne peered into the case she had opened, she had frozen when he described the box. _Does he mean to propose to me?_ she wondered. She absently sifted through the underclothes in the suitcase.

Suddenly, Monsieur Roinoir was at her side and she jumped in fright.

"You've gone green, is there something the matter, Jeanne?" He asked softly.

"No, and still no luck finding the box," she told him, ruefully.

She felt him slowly take her hand in his, and prayed that he hadn't found the box instead.

The distinct sound of metal clinking together hit her ears, and she looked down to see Monsieur Roinoir securing a shackle around her wrist.

A hideous snicker escaped from her master, and she glanced back up to see his cunning grin restored.

He bit his lip lightly before revealing, "There is no box, Jeanne. Only a country girl and the master of this great house."

"Common wretch!" She reeled back and he felt her saliva spatter across his face. He stepped back, wiped it away with his sleeve, and stared back at her firmly.

"I forgot you've put on airs, haven't you? You've played at being the mistress of my home for so long —" He flew forward, grasped her jaw in his hand, and forced her back onto the bed. "— I believe, now is the time to stop pretending."


	5. Chapter 5: Games

Author's Note: My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. It is NOT modern day; my story takes place in the mid-1800s. Within this story there will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in depth character profiles.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>

**CHAPTER 5: Games**

Her master's moist breath cascaded across her face in a heavy wave and gooseflesh spread across her skin in disgust. The hand gripping her throat loosened once she was resting upon the bed. She feared his intentions and began a struggle.

This only caused him to laugh. As she writhed he was speaking to her, but she was too distraught to hear.

"Calm yourself!" He growled at her. At his dangerous tone of voice, she froze.

After he had gained her full attention, Erik removed the key from his waistcoat pocket and held it before him. Jeanne snatched for it wildly. He dashed backward and out of her reach.

A wild grin spread over her master's face. "No, I think this key shall return to my pocket until the end of the night. I won't release you before I'm satisfied," he taunted her.

"You will not lay a finger upon me, sir! I would rather die a thousand deaths than touch you!" She shouted.

In an instant he had leapt across the room, forcing a long, elegant hand over her mouth. "Quiet yourself, Jeanne. If my guests were to hear you, it would be quite an embarrassment, and I could hardly keep you after that. Think of your sweet Christine."

Jeanne settled down once more, and he stepped back.

"I will not violate you, Jeanne. Though it would hardly spoil you. I want us to play a game, you and I. It will be an amusement which will require much concentration on your part," he paused here, and tried to read her expression.

She regarded him warily, and sat up on the bed. "What kind of game?"

"I will tell you, but first you must know the terms for the winner and the loser. If you win—I shall release you at. . ." He glanced at his pocket watch. ". . . 2:00AM. If you lose—You shall be left here until the morning, at which time you will be turned out of the chateau."

"And what about you?" She wondered.

"No matter what happens. . . I'll win. Though, if you win, I will leave tomorrow with my guests."

He was smug and predatory, and she hated him. If she could reach him, she would scratch that damned smile from his face.

"What's the game, monsieur?"

In response, Monsieur Roinoir moved to the right side of the room, and pulled on a cord that drew back a wall hanging. Behind the covering was a window, through which she could see La Sorelli. Jeanne covered her face in shame at having La Sorelli see her in such a state. Until she noticed that Sorelli could not see her.

Monsieur Roinoir chuckled. "Do you like my enchanted mirror, Jeanne? It's one-way glass. That simple little creature has no idea that we're looking at her. If she did, would her dressing gown be draped open like that? Would she be massaging her ankle in such a way?"

Jeanne felt herself growing sick. What did this sinister man have in store for poor Sorelli?

He crossed to the other side of the room and pulled another cord. Jeanne gasped at Carlotta, whose face was nearly pressed up against the glass. She was picking at her teeth.

Monsieur Roinoir shuddered.

"Before I leave, I will remove the apparatus which soundproof this room. You must be very quiet if you wish to stay here with Christine. Remember, if you win—I'll be leaving tomorrow." He waited for her to reply.

"Yes, monsieur," she whispered. The shame she had felt moments before crept through her. If she had to endure one night of mild torture for every five years of peace, she could handle it.

"There's the sporting sensibility I was looking for. Now, I will enter Carlotta's room, and while I am inside, I shall extend my hand toward the mirror three separate times, and you must be able to tell me how many fingers I held up each time. Then I will enter Sorelli's room, and do the same. Altogether you must remember six numbers that I indicate. Do you understand?" He asked.

Jeanne was relieved at this rather simple game. "That should be rather easy, monsieur. I suppose you don't mind if I succeed in this game, if you'll win no matter what."

Monsieur Roinoir wagged his finger at her. "You've caught onto me, Jeanne. What could be more benign than this game?" He put his finger to his lips and then removed a little box above the mirror to Carlotta's room.

As he left the room, he bowed to Jeanne. She rolled her eyes and turned toward Carlotta's room. A knock sounded at the door and Carlotta jumped, sending a perfume bottle crashing to the floor. Jeanne started at the sound.

Carlotta swore a few times, and then answered the door. Monsieur Roinoir entered and immediately bent down on one knee. Her Italian curses were clearly audible. Jeanne watched her master implore Carlotta, but could only faintly hear what he was saying. After a few moments of making no progress, Monsieur Roinoir stood up and thrust himself against Carlotta. His mouth covered hers, and stemmed the volatile onslaught of words. She fought him for a moment or two, but eventually Jeanne watched the soprano's arms curl around her master's shoulders.

At this moment, Monsieur Roinoir raised his arm and extended one finger.

"One," Jeanne breathed quietly to herself.

He tore himself away from Carlotta, and Jeanne saw blood smeared on his bottom lip. She wondered who had bitten who. When Monsieur Roinoir began massaging Carlotta's breast, Jeanne looked away.

Then she remembered the point of the game. To watch.

What he intended suddenly dawned on her, and she writhed in disgust on the bed, holding her hand over her mouth. No matter how awful she had found Carlotta to be, she did not wish to humiliate her by observing her nightly activities. Nor did she wish to view her in such an intimate manner. The idea of seeing her naked was repulsive.

Monsieur Roinoir broke away for a moment and brushed his thumb across his lip.

"Mademoiselle, you're wild," Jeanne heard him tell Carlotta.

"Like a tigress, monsieur," she replied. In a flash, Carlotta had taken hold of Monsieur Roinoir's lapels, and spun him so that his back was toward the bed. When she had him situated, she pounced on him. The wooden bed frame creaked and shuddered. Carlotta ground herself against him in a way that Jeanne could only assume was painful.

As Monsieur Roinoir's hands explored the expanse of Carlotta's bosom, her right nipple was exposed. Jeanne choked, and tried not to call out for them to stop.

After a brief moment of aggressive kissing, Carlotta began fumbling with the front of his trousers. His member was briefly exposed to Jeanne before it disappeared under Carlotta's skirts. The soprano rose up on the balls of her feet and swiftly sunk back down onto Monsieur Roinoir. As her master released a powerful moan, he held up two fingers toward the mirror.

Two, Jeanne thought to herself, too stunned to speak. Her face was burning with distress and anger. She trembled as she watched Carlotta buck against her master.

It was a slow and painful ordeal, but eventually, Carlotta increased her pace and Monsieur Roinoir nonchalantly held up three fingers toward the mirror as he finished.

Afterward, Monsieur Roinoir rested in Carlotta's bed and sipped at a glass of wine. Jeanne tried to pull herself free during this time. Her wrist grew reddened and raw. It bled slightly from where the clasp cut into her skin. She hoped the blood would make it slick enough to escape.

She gasped when the door pitched open. Monsieur Roinoir held his coat over his shoulder, and lazily walked to the mirror.

Jeanne was about to implore him, but he held a hand to his lips. He returned the little box to its place above the mirror.

"One-two-three!" She exclaimed when it was in place. "Let that be enough, I don't understand what pleasure could be had from that, but let it be enough. You've shamed me enough, please release me?"

Monsieur Roinoir knelt beside her. He took up her wrist in his hand, and she whimpered.

"Do I see a cheat before me?" He asked her in a pitiless tone. He was close enough that she could feel the heat from his body.

"No, monsieur. My restraint is painful," she whispered.

He took her face firmly between his hands and severely responded, "You have no idea how painful restraint can truly be."

Then he was up, removing the second little box from above Sorelli's mirror.

She let out one last silent plea before he left the room.

Sorelli was situated in front of her mirror, slowly brushing her hair. Monsieur Roinoir burst into the room and Jeanne watched Sorelli jump out of her seat. He was upon her in an instant. He threw the ballerina up on the vanity table and began stripping away her nightgown and undergarments.

The girl gave protestation and tried to calm him. Jeanne heard her tell him that she was tired and would prefer he come to her in the morning. The master would not have it and continued on with his intentions. He laid four fingers against the mirror.

"Are you exhausted from my day of doting on you?" He demanded to know.

"My sensibilities are overtired. You have injured me today, perhaps more than you know." Though she could not see them, Jeanne could clearly hear tears in Sorelli's voice.

"Unless it's your tight little slit that's injured, I couldn't care less," he growled. Sorelli was suddenly jerked back against the mirror, and she cried out. The master's left hand covered her mouth.

Jeanne's distress and anger disappeared as she suddenly went white with fear at the thought of the harm that might come to Sorelli.

"Do you no longer find pleasure when I touch you?" He asked Sorelli soflty. His eyes peered over her head and into the mirror. "Don't you enjoy the way my fingers slip inside of you?"

Sorelli's breathing grew heavy and she nodded reluctantly. "I do, but I shouldn't allow it. Not after how I've been treated."

Monsieur Roinoir leaned closer and appealed to her. "Sorelli, dear Sorelli. Forgive me, please forgive me. Let me have my way with you tonight, and I promise you that tomorrow—"

Sorelli convulsed and pressed her cheek against the glass of the mirror. Jeanne watched as her breaths left a stream of fog on the glass.

"— I shall be a saint," he finished after her outburst.

The girl nodded once more.

In a violent maneuver, Sorelli was abruptly turned and bent over the vanity. She held one hand against the table, and the other pressed firmly against the mirror. Monsieur Roinoir made short work of his trousers and began thrusting savagely into Sorelli. His open palm landed next to Sorelli's on the mirror. Five.

Despite the use of an innocent enough girl, Jeanne somehow found it easier to watch her master with Sorelli. Perhaps it was that Sorelli was easier to look at than Carlotta. Or it could have been the slight stimulation she began to feel as she watched the passionate display beyond the mirror. Before long, Jeanne's breathing grew ragged and she began to feel warm.

The remorse she had felt for Sorelli vanished when she heard the ballerina moan in ecstasy. A few minutes later the deed was done, and Monsieur Roinoir held up six fingers. He left immediately, with Sorelli still panting over the vanity.

He entered his room again, leaving the door wide open. His shirt was undone and his trousers barely fastened. He returned the second little box to its place above the vanity and crouched next to Jeanne. Without asking for the next three numbers, he unlocked the shackle around her wrist and pointed to the door.

Jeanne didn't move. "Monsieur…"

"Get out."

"The wager—" she began.

He hauled her up to her feet. "There's no fucking wager. All there is in this room, is a villain and the country girl who torments him. Get out of here… NOW!" He bellowed at her and she started.

Jeanne sprinted out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. She bolted for Christine's bedroom, and once inside, she locked the door and propped a chair against it. She climbed into bed next to Christine, something she had not done in years, and cradled the child against her chest.

* * *

><p>Upon waking the next morning, Jeanne discovered that the master had dragged his guests from their rooms absurdly early that morning and left in a hurry. Jeanne and Madame Giry breathed a sigh of relief, but the two young girls in the house lamented his absence.<p>

In the afternoon, the very same day, Jeanne was tending the small garden on the side of the house with the girls. As she dug a carrot from the ground, she heard horses trotting down the path. Her stomach knotted, fearing her master's return. When she turned to look, she was pleased to see Philippe and Raoul de Chagny dismounting their horses. She smiled and waved to the welcome guests.

Christine and Meg ran toward Raoul's horse with their hands full of carrots and began feeding the creature the fruits of their labor.

Jeanne stood and wiped her hands on her apron. Philippe approached with his mare beside him, and Jeanne reached up to stroke her mane.

"Hello, Grace," she cooed, "You look beautiful this afternoon. And I am ever so pleased you finally escorted Philippe back to us."

Philippe laughed, and patted Grace's neck. "I have been out of the country at a cousin's estate, or we would have come sooner. I brought a little violin from Sweden for Christine."

"She will be exceedingly thankful to have it." Jeanne lead him toward the stables at the back of the house. "You do like to spoil her."

"Well, Christine is a good girl, who receives no affection from her guardian. She is like a sister to Raoul and I, and so we naturally enjoy doting upon her." Philippe handed Grace off to the groom, removed the violin from the saddle and the pair entered the chateau through a back door.

When they reached the parlor inside, Jeanne perched herself on a chaise lounge.

"I've brought you a gift as well, Jeanne," Philippe told her as he rested the violin near the door.

"Oh Philippe, I did not expect a gift from you." Jeanne blushed and fiddled with the pillow next to her.

He slipped a thin box from his front coat pocket and sat beside her. When he lifted the lid, Jeanne's breath caught in her throat. An elegant heart-shaped pendant rested on a fine silver chain. The small diamonds around the edge shimmered in the light.

"I know you said you were content with the one you're wearing, but when I saw it, I thought I could persuade you. It is not too gauche, I hope."

Jeanne shook her head, too stunned to speak. Her fingers ghosted over the pendant. Philippe turned it over in its box.

_"Yours Forever, Philippe"_ was engraved into the back.

"For as long as I am on this earth, I will love you, Jeanne."

Jeanne pulled him close and captured his mouth in a tender kiss.

It was after the first two years of visits from Philippe and Raoul, that Philippe's usual neighborliness began to carry more warmth toward Jeanne. One day, when they were taking coffee in the gazebo, Philippe gave her the sailor's knot necklace, from his time in the Navy. He explained that it was given between lovers, and something cold in Jeanne's heart began to thaw.

She had sworn that her heart was buried with another, but in Philippe's presence, she didn't quite believe it was true. He kissed her that day in the gazebo, and she knew that she truly cared for him.

"As I cherish you, my dear friend," she responded.

"May I?" Philippe removed the necklace from its box, and slowly fastened it around Jeanne's neck. He went to remove the sailor's knot bauble, and Jeanne stayed his hand.

"I will wear them both."

Philippe nodded and a moment later, Jeanne embraced him once more. Before long, their soft kisses turned fierce with wanting. Philippe's mouth ventured down her throat to the silken skin across her breast.

"I have longed for you each day, my love. Now that I have found my way back to you, I cannot bear the thought of being away another night." As he spoke, his hand found its way up Jeanne's skirts. When she felt his hand reach its destination, she stopped him.

"We mustn't get carried away with ourselves. You are still a comte and I am still a housekeeper," she reminded him.

"Damn this house, damn the aristocracy," Philippe proclaimed. "Be my wife."

"I will not have you sully your name by giving it to me. Then you would damn yourself, I fear." Jeanne would not allow a good man like Philippe de Chagny to ruin himself by marrying her. Some day he would be a good husband to a highborn wife who would bear him noble sons.

"Then live with me. I shall never marry. We will have a family, and my title can pass to Raoul."

She gently held his face in her hands. "What if in a year you no longer care for me? What if I'm boring or too simple? Don't think to throw your life away on someone of no consequence."

"The only lips I shall ever kiss are yours, and the last name to leave mine, will be yours."

"I can't marry you, and you know very well why." They had spoken of it often, Jeanne would not leave Christine to fend for herself in Monsieur Roinoir's household.

"Christine would be next door, you could visit her every day."

"I won't desert her, I could never forgive myself." Jeanne turned away and grew quiet.

Philippe sighed and caressed her arms. "We could marry in secret, and you could remain here. I would visit every day. Monsieur Roinoir is never here, there is no impediment. What do you say to that?"

"I only ask that you give me time for consideration," Jeanne requested.

"Of course."

Jeanne stood, and took Philippe's hand. "Come along. We shant be disturbed in my quarters."

"I only just heard you say we mustn't get carried away with ourselves," Philippe challenged her.

"A woman is entitled to change her mind, and I must properly thank you for your gift, Comte de Chagny." An inviting smile appeared on Jeanne's face, and Philippe diligently followed her back to her room.

Their congress was enough to stop his talk of marriage, which Jeanne hoped she could put off. If only he would have been Christine's legal guardian, her life would have been like a fairy tale.


	6. Chapter 6: Lamplight

Author's Note: My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. It is NOT modern day; my story takes place in the mid-1800s. Within this story there will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in depth character profiles.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 6: Lamplight<strong>

Another five years passed without the return of the master of the house.

Jeanne was able to delay Philippe's talk of marriage, which had only caused them both distress. He visited each day with Raoul, and while Raoul and Christine played, Jeanne and Philippe would spend time together. For the first few years, it was a wild affair, but eventually it seemed to become everyday life. A marriage without a contract. This contented both of them, perhaps one more than the other.

Marguerite Giry was accepted into the ballet school at the Opera Garnier, and lived in student housing in Paris. She would often see Monsieur Roinoir, but had never spoken to him except to say, "Good day, monsieur." Her talent was unmistakable and Sorelli had been her dedicated advocate at the opera house.

Raoul de Chagny was often away at school, and he wrote Christine at every opportunity. He was disappointed with his peers' lack of adventure and imagination, which Christine carried in abundance. He would remark that the time he spent at the Chateau Roinoir was the happiest of his life.

Christine Daae had taken singing lessons every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from an acclaimed and expensive tutor. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays she practiced alone or with Jeanne. Sunday was choir day. Singing was her most cherished pastime and it was rare that she would be found doing much else. To Jeanne, it often seemed the only time she did not sing was during meals.

She would sing to her dolls and write little operettas for them during tea time. She would hum while tending to her garden. The only time her singing stopped altogether was when Raoul would return from school, and she would be far too distracted with imagining a daring rescue to remember to sing. He was her dearest friend, and while singing was important, it was entirely forgotten when she saw him approaching down the road from his brother's chateau.

At thirteen, Christine was aware of a shift in her feelings toward Raoul. While she was not entirely certain of the change, she noted it in a journal she kept hidden beneath her bed. She had written of the ache in her heart each time the postman arrived with the letters, and the lightness that spread in her chest when one of them was from Raoul.

This was the state of things after the passing of five years. And once again, the master returned.

* * *

><p>Jeanne jolted up in bed when she heard the wild ringing of her servant's bell. It was still night, and she lit the lamp beside her bed. She swiftly shrugged a robe over her shoulders and went out into Christine's room. She was also roused by the bell.<p>

"Shall I come with you, Jeanne?" The girl asked desperately. Her voice, even in distress, was like a softly spoken melody.

"No, little Lotte, you stay in your room until I've sorted it out."

"It must be an emergency, they haven't stopped pulling the bell. What if its thieves!" Christine's imagination had run away with her.

Jeanne laughed. "Stay in your room," she ordered and darted out into the hall.

She rushed down the main staircase and paused when she saw the shape of a tall man standing at the entrance. The one of the main doors was wide open and she saw the rain pouring down outside.

"Monsieur Roinoir?" She asked with hesitation in her voice.

The man turned to her, and he was a stranger.

"No mademoiselle, but he had me ride ahead. He will be coming very soon, this night, and you must be prepared to receive him and his doctor." The man was frantic, and he wrung his soaking hat in his hands.

"Good lord, is something wrong? You're trembling." Jeanne placed her hand on his shoulder and lead him toward the kitchen. When Firmin saw her, he ceased ringing the bell. "Firmin, warm this man by the fire, feed him, give him a bed to sleep on."

"Thank you, mademoiselle," the man said softly. "Forgive me, it is a treacherous night, and I am out of sorts. There was an accident in Paris two nights ago. They could not move your master until now."

Firmin shot her a grave stare.

"An accident? He was harmed?" Jeanne pushed him.

The man nodded. "He was, but I know no more than that. He said your master wanted to be moved to his chateau as soon as he was able, and that I should ride ahead and tell Mademoiselle Leyre they're on their way."

"Firmin, rouse the maids, and have Monsieur Roinoir's room prepared, and another for his doctor. Make sure everything is perfectly in order. When the master arrives, follow his doctor's instructions, should he give you any." She turned to the messenger. "Please take what you like from the kitchen, I will return in a few moments."

Jeanne returned to Christine's room and found the girl pacing.

"It was nothing, my love. Just a late delivery that Firmin did not know what to do with. Get back in your bed, and I will return in time." Jeanne helped Christine back into bed and kissed her cheek.

"Good night, Jeanne," Christine yawned before falling back asleep.

Jeanne crept down the stairs slowly, and saw the maids dashing toward the master's room. She rejoined the messenger in the kitchen and drank a glass of wine to calm her nerves. Afterward, she showed him to the servants quarters and let him rest.

When she was alone, she returned to the open front door and watched the rain fall on the road. As she pulled her robe tightly around her body, something in her suddenly hoped the master would die before he reached the chateau. If he died, Philippe could take guardianship of Christine and they could finally live together as a family. Was this accident retribution for his cruelty? She could hardly know the inner workings of the lord, but she knew that her master deserved to be punished. Was this his punishment?

If he lived, would he stay forever at the chateau? Would she have to care for an invalid master? Would she have to feed him and bath him to keep her place?

Let him die, she prayed, Let the villain die.

And suddenly, in the darkness, she saw the shape of two black horses galloping through the downpour. She inhaled and by the time she exhaled, the carriage was pulling around toward the front doors. She wrenched open the second door and ran down to the carriage. Her wet waves of ginger curls clung to her face.

An older gentleman exited the carriage. "Mademoiselle, I am sorry to tell you this—" Excitement pounded in her veins at the prospect of his death. "— But your master has been gravely injured." Disappointment pitted in her stomach.

"I had heard, but he is still—"

"Alive," a throaty and crackling voice came from within the carriage. Jeanne peered into the carriage and saw the bandages covering the face of her master. His cold eyes stared back at her.

The footmen came around and pulled open the back of the carriage. Four men carried the stretcher and the doctor held an umbrella above Monsieur Roinoir's head. Jeanne lead them up the staircase and as the master was shifted, he cried out in agony. She had never heard such pain released from a human being. It shook the staircase and reverberated in her ears. When they reached the landing, Christine exited her room to investigate the screams.

"My goodness! What's happened?" She exclaimed and ran to Jeanne's side. Christine tried to see around the men carrying the stretcher and was rewarded with a glimpse of a man's eyes. They appeared frightened and defeated.

"Christine Daae, get back to your room. I will tell you everything in the morning, but right now I need to help the master."

"Monsieur Roinoir? What's happened to the poor man?"

"Christine!" Jeanne shouted in a tone that Christine dare not disobey. They continued on to the master's bedroom, and lifted him onto the bed. He cried out again, but it cracked in his throat and he lost consciousness. The men who helped disappeared from the room as quickly as they were able.

"It's best I change his bandages before he wakes," the doctor told her. "If you'd like to step out, mademoiselle."

"No, I should like to see what happened to him," she protested.

The doctor sighed. "He told me he had an accident with a lamp, but if you ask me, this was no accident." He gently removed the bandages from Monsieur Roinoir's head. When his face was exposed, Jeanne covered her mouth with her hands.

"Dear God, oh my God," she whimpered.

The left half of his face was covered in severe burns. The flesh was red, raw and exposed, bleeding in various places. The wounds twisted up into his hairline and down across his throat.

"If you'd like to leave, I would not blame you." The doctor patted her shoulder.

She shook her head. "I'm not afraid of him, it was only a shock."

"Good, you'll need a strong stomach to take care of him when I return to Paris," as the doctor told her this, he began dabbing an ointment across her master's face.

"You're going?" She had lied, she was terrified to be left alone with him.

"Not for a week or so, until I'm sure there's no infection."

Monsieur Roinoir began writhing, and cried out in delirium.

"There's a syringe in that case there," the doctor pointed to a case on the night stand.

Jeanne took it up and held it out to him. He quickly filled it with morphine and administered it to the master. He calmed and whispered nonsense until he slept once more.

"I shall teach you to change his bandages, apply the salve and administer the morphine tomorrow."

"Surely, he should have a nurse," Jeanne reasoned, not wishing to spend another moment in his presence.

The doctor stopped what he was doing and looked up at her. "He said that you would care for him, and he would have no other come near him."

Jeanne shook her head in disbelief. _Wretch_, she wanted to shout at him.

"When I am finished, I shall retire. If he stirs, feel free to fetch me," the doctor instructed.

"Do you intend that I stay with him?" Jeanne was incredulous, and felt sick at the thought.

"You must, God forbid a fit should occur." Within a few moments, the doctor had gone.

The master was quiet, and Jeanne rested on a day bed at the side of the room. She faced the drapery on the wall and recalled the night he had shackled her to his bed and forced her to watch as he degraded the women from the opera house. She lifted the drape away, but could not see into the darkness of the other room. In the reflection of the master's room, she thought she caught Monsieur Roinoir staring at her.

She turned toward him, but he remained unconscious. She pulled a chair toward the head of his bed and sat beside him.

Small and guttural sounds echoed in his throat. He whimpered and groaned in pain like a child. Again, she wished he had died, but this time it was out of pity for the man she saw before her. "Forgive me," she whispered. "I should never have prayed for such a wicked thing. No one deserves such pain."

Jeanne leaned forward and laid a light kiss on the bandages covering his forehead.

"Not even a villain?" His voice rumbled from his throat.

"No, not even a villain, monsieur." Jeanne held his hand, because she felt it was the kind thing to do. Despite their history, she wanted to comfort him, and recognized that now was not the time for petty hatred.

"I only wanted to see you one last time. If I die, so be it," he told her quietly. Something like a smile raised the unharmed side of his face. He choked from the agony the movement had caused him.

"That's very silly of you, you could have sent for me. I would have come," she assured him, and caressed his hand.

"I wanted to surprise you. So, surprise, dear Jeanne, your master is a monster. Though you always knew that." He turned his face from her and gasped from the pain.

"You're not a monster, you've just had an accident. I will tend to you, until you are well again."

"I don't want you to nurse me out of pity," he spat back at her.

Pity was precisely the reason she had offered to care for him, but he needn't know it. Did he expect her to love him when she discovered he was wounded?

"It is out of kindness that I shall tend to you, monsieur. It distresses me to see you in pain, despite what you may believe."

"I don't ever expect that you should love me, but if you would consent to being cordial, I would be contented." Jeanne was startled to hear him speak in such a way.

"If you would like a friend, I can certainly be that, but nothing more," as she spoke, his hand tightened around hers before loosening again.

He drifted off to sleep, and she took her place on the day bed.

* * *

><p>Monsieur Roinoir awoke to the lull of hushed prayers.<p>

"Is it time for that already?" He rasped at Jeanne. "I hardly thought you would pray at the end."

"Monsieur Roinoir, you are awake," a delicate voice told him. It was certainly not Jeanne.

He slowly turned toward the voice. His heart flooded with warmth when he beheld the angel knelt beside his bed. Thick, dark curls covered her head and fell over her shoulders. A pair of warm brown eyes gazed up at him from beneath long glossy lashes.

"I hope you do not mind that I was praying for you. You are in my prayers each night, but I thought it could only be helpful to pray now."

A nasty retort stuck in his throat. "Thank you for your prayers. You've grown since I saw you last."

"Like a weed, Madame Giry always says," Christine agreed.

"No, like a rose," he corrected her.

The girl blushed crimson on porcelain white cheeks. "Thank you, monsieur."

"How are your singing lessons coming along?" He wondered after a moment.

"Oh, they are my favorite thing in the world, monsieur. Jeanne tells me I am a slave to music, and she could not be more correct." Her animated response was childlike and thankful.

"I am pleased to hear it. Would you sing for me? Something sweet?"

Christine thought for a moment and began singing softly to him. The melody drifted through him and his body relaxed. His pain drifted away from him, and he found joy in her soulful little voice.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered and the girl stopped.

"Yes, monsieur?" Her eyes regarded him attentively, and she awaited a response.

He patted the side of the bed. "Sit here and sing to me. It deadens the pain, I think."

She did as he requested and sang to him at the edge of the bed. He admired his budding ward as she sang and smiled down at him. It had always been clear to him that she would be a beauty, but he had not quite expected the girl beside him. The virtues within her were apparent in her gaze, and he found it remarkable.

They were interrupted when the door opened.

"Christine!" Jeanne called out immediately. "What on earth are you doing in the master's room? Remove yourself at once!" She ordered.

Christine made a move to stand, but the master grasped her graceful little hand.

"No, Jeanne. Christine has been singing to me, and I am quite fond of it. Let her be. I have been away too long, and have neglected my ward too often."

Jeanne glanced between the two of them. "Christine has lessons with Madame Giry."

The master glared down the bed at Jeanne. "Lessons are cancelled for today."

Christine smiled at the master, but when she gazed back at Jeanne, she shrunk at her displeasure.

"If that is your wish, monsieur," Jeanne responded through gritted teeth.

"It is, and she shall sing for me a little each day, if it would please her." He ran the pad of his thumb over her hand, and Christine nodded.

"I would be very pleased to sing for you," she agreed quickly.

"Very well," Jeanne muttered. "The doctor is coming to change your bandages, if you should like Christine to see that as well, I suppose I cannot stop you." Jeanne entered the room and stood on the side of his bed opposite Christine.

He turned to the girl. "Perhaps it is best you run along, I don't want to be the cause of your nightmares."

Christine looked to her nanny in confusion, who motioned towards the door. She whispered a goodbye and left the master alone with Jeanne.

"I should imagine when the time comes, it will be quite simple to marry her off to a very rich man," Monsieur Roinoir commented when she was gone.

"Indeed, the Vicomte de Chagny looks like a very good prospect already," Jeanne concurred.

If it would not cause him pain, he would have raised his eyebrows. "Really, now?"

"Aside from the fact that he is fifteen, it's very promising," Jeanne laughed and the master understood her joke. "A little love is blossoming, I think. He writes her from school, and she's begun hiding her letters away. She used to read them aloud for all to hear, but now she's keeping it to herself like some great secret."

The idea of his ward marrying a vicomte was of great interest to the master of the house. "There is nothing sweeter than young love," he told Jeanne. "After your first heartbreak is when the rot sets in. When you find love again, your heart is twisted and sick with wanting, and it's never someone you can have."

Jeanne nodded. "I know that very well, monsieur."

"What have you wanted? You, who buried her heart ten years ago and severed all ties to it?" His attack was cruel, but Jeanne would prefer he thought her unable to love, than discover she loved another very deeply.

"I only meant from observation," she amended.

"Look at you, still young, still a comely creature. Though all of your girlishness has vanished, and now I see a woman standing beside me. I had hoped you would grow fat or ugly, but you have only grown more elegant." It pleased him when she looked away.

She looked back as he began to groan. His face contorted in pain.

"Morphine, now!" He pleaded.

Jeanne opened the case containing the morphine and filled the syringe in the manner the doctor had the previous night. She flicked it with her finger as he had done and slipped it into the crook of her master's arm. When the medicine was administered, her master grabbed her wrist.

"Forgive me for this, Jeanne," he said through his spasms. She looked at his hand and noticed he was referring to the scar she had received on her wrist from the night he chained her to his bed.

"Of course, monsieur," she breathed and patted his hand.

Her master began to weep in earnest, and Jeanne held his hand against her chest. "I was cruel to you, and I should have been kind. I should have kissed your feet and tended to Christine like a father. When a family was thrust into my arms, I cast it away at the first opportunity. Each day, I find myself wondering what would have happened if I had remained in your bed that night ten years ago. Or remained here to help you raise Christine, who was my burden and not yours.

"What sickness is inside me that I would chain you up like an animal? How can I treat people with such little regard and care so little when I ruin them?" He sobbed dreadfully, which only caused him more distress.

"I forgive you, monsieur, if you are truly repentant," she told him sincerely.

"You cannot forgive me my worst sin, dear Jeanne. If it had been you I trespassed against, I couldn't live with myself, and I can hardly bear to live now. I deserve this torture and I deserve it ten times over for the malice I have borne upon that poor soul. If I thought you would do it, I would beg you to smother me now, and say I died in my sleep. But if I asked it, I would only do more harm."

Jeanne worried he was feverish and talking nonsense at her. "What do you mean, monsieur? What poor soul?"

"She loved me, and I tormented her each day with that love for six years. I was wicked to her because I knew that I could be. I put her up in an apartment and took what I wanted from her, leaving nothing in return. Except my seed in her womb, which I forced her to rid herself of. I wouldn't allow a ballerina to carry my bastard."

"Sorelli?" Jeanne muttered.

Her master nodded sadly, and sobbed. "Three nights ago, she revealed to me that she was with child again, and when I told her to remedy it… Sorelli refused. She flew into a fury, telling me she wouldn't murder her child, and she would not be forced into it a second time."

"Do not tell me that you forced her to..." The grip Jeanne had on her master's hand had grown slack, and she did not know if she cared to hear where his tale would end.

"No…" He paused and looked as far away from her as he could manage. "I beat her. Again and again, until I believed no life could have survived within her. Then I left her, bleeding in the center of the room. I heard her crying, and was satisfied that she was alive. I fell asleep, and the next thing I heard were my own screams after she broke the lamp over my head. She must have left immediately afterward. It was strange, but even as it was happening, I knew I deserved it. I said nothing to the police or doctors. She didn't deserve any of the hell I put her through, and I won't send her through another."

Jeanne dropped his hand in horror and backed away from him.

"I am sorry for the terrible thing that I've done, and if I were able, I would undo it."

"To ease your conscience, not to spare Sorelli!" She roared at him. "You're evil, and to think I offered you friendship. You only play at humanity, I daresay you will never possess it."

"I wanted to be honest with you, and begin again."

"You cannot begin again, monsieur. You have done the damage, and it has left its mark. Revealing your sins to me does not absolve them, it only fuels the fire of my hatred for you," Jeanne seethed at him and left the room.

Monsieur Roinoir had played this scenario out in his mind after Jeanne had said, "I forgive you, monsieur, if you are truly repentant," and decided not to tell Jeanne about his crimes against Sorelli. During his long and introspective pause, Jeanne began readying the bandages for the doctor.

"I am repentant, for each of my sins, and I wish to begin again," he admitted to her finally.

Jeanne smiled at him for what seemed like the first time since the day he met her. "I encourage you fully, monsieur. After all, each day brings new possibilities."

"Aren't you the wise old maid?" He joked.

The housekeeper tapped his arm and chided him. "I take offense to that, monsieur."

"Erik," corrected her faintly. "If we are to be friends, I wouldn't mind you calling me familiar."

"All right then. Erik it shall be." Jeanne was not entirely sure if she should believe her master's change of heart, but she had heard that traumatic experiences could lead to such alterations.

"When my bandages have been changed, I would like it if Christine sang to me for a while," Erik requested.

"Of course, Erik. Tomorrow she must attend her lessons, but I will send her up when they are finished, if you like?" Jeanne suggested.

"Very much. She has the most exquisite voice I have ever had the pleasure to hear, and I have heard the finest voices in Europe," as he spoke, an idea began to form in his head. "When I am well enough, I believe I shall take over her vocal tutelage. Perhaps I can begin to make amends for my absence these long years."

The notion implied that he would remain at the chateau for some time, and Jeanne hesitated. It pleased her that he intended to spend time with Christine, but their life had been considerably better without him in it. Philippe's daily visits would need to stop, and Jeanne felt a pang in her heart at the thought of it.

"Christine would surely be pleased," Jeanne answered eventually.

"Then it's settled. When I am well, she shall become my pupil."

* * *

><p>A week passed and the doctor claimed that Erik's wounds were beginning to heal satisfactorily. Erik admitted the pain was less, but just as frequent. He could sit up in bed, and was able to feed himself with slight effort. The doctor left him in Jeanne's care and returned to Paris.<p>

After her lessons, Christine bounded up to her guardian's room and entered, already singing a Swedish art song. She performed each part in a different voice and when she was finished, Monsieur Roinoir applauded.

"Bravo, bravo, Mademoiselle Daae."

Christine twirled at the center of the room and curtsied to him. She ventured to the right side of the bed and plopped down beside him. She dug in her pockets and produced a chocolate.

"I thought you might like one, monsieur. Raoul sent them to me from Germany."

"Perhaps later, my cherub," he kindly refused. The vicomte did appear partial to his ward, and it suited him that perhaps one day, they would marry.

"I also have a letter from Meg. She's been at the opera house for the last five years, but she says she's hardly seen you. Shall I read it?" Erik nodded. Christine pulled the letter from her pocket and her head lolled against Erik's shoulder as she tore it open.

"Dearest Lotte, _(that's my pet name, monsieur)_

I have only the most terrible news to share with you. It seems that yesterday morning, La Sorelli was found..." Christine stopped reading aloud, and gasped at what she read.

"What is it, Christine?" He demanded, his voice more harsh than she had ever heard it.

She turned her face into his shoulder and placed the letter in his lap. "I can't speak it, it's too horrible." The girl began to cry against him.

He took up the letter and read on,

"La Sorelli was found hanging in her apartment. Policemen came this morning to tell the managers she had taken her own life. I don't believe my mentor would do such a thing. I suspect foul play, but the police wouldn't listen to me. She was very happy the last time I saw her, and she said she had exciting news. I don't know what sort of evil could make her do it."

Erik stopped reading at this. He caressed the child's head in a comforting gesture, but after a moment, he could no longer contain himself.

"Please leave me," he barely breathed.

She continued to cry.

"Leave this room, Christine," he said in his normal tone of voice.

She shook her head against his chest and clung tighter to him.

"Get the fuck out of this room!" He bellowed at the child, and she was gone in a flash.

His entire body shook as he reread the letter. He was racked with sobs. He had killed her, the beautiful ballerina La Sorelli. His cruelty and brutality had crushed her, as if his very hands were the noose that choked the life from her. His face ached from his cries, and he wrenched the bandages from his head. Let infection come, let it slowly kill me. Let the rot spread through me.

It did not take Christine long to find Jeanne, who sprinted to her master's aid. She found him with his face exposed, wringing his hands around a letter. Tears poured down his face, and she went to comfort him.

"What's wrong, monsieur? You've frightened Christine half to death."

"La Sorelli has killed herself," he told her absently.

This knocked the wind out of Jeanne. "I only remember that she was uncommonly kind," she said quietly.

His reaction to Sorelli's death was a surprise, and Jeanne found herself holding him as much as she was able with his wounds. She swept the tears from his face with her apron and gently rocked him until he asked to be left alone with his thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7: After This Night

**Author's Note:** My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. It's NOT modern-day; my story takes place in the Mid 1800s. Within this story there will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in-depth character profiles.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 7: After This Night<strong>

The following morning was a solemn one. It was filled with talk about the deceased ballerina who had once visited the château. Christine was deeply upset by the news and shaken by her guardian's reaction to it. Jeanne attempted to calm her and explain that despair can force a person to act in a way others cannot always understand. Though Jeanne had meant Sorelli, she realized the same went for her master.

When Christine's curiosity was satisfied, Jeanne suggested she should find something to occupy her time before lessons with Madame Giry. The girl wandered into the music room and ran scales for a few moments. She paused when she saw Monsieur Roinoir walking across the grass in his robe. He entered the gazebo and looked out toward the lake. As she looked on, he swayed and fell down on one knee.

Christine raced out the front door and around the house toward him. When she flew up the steps to the gazebo, he turned toward the sound.

"Monsieur, are you all right? I saw you fall. You should not be out of bed yet." She knelt beside him. One of her delicate hands grasped his shoulder and the other rested upon his wrist.

"I only needed fresh air, my cherub," he replied. He covered the small hand on his wrist with his own. "You won't tell Jeanne, will you?"

Christine shook her head.

"Perhaps we should sit on one of these fine benches, what do you think?"

Christine nodded.

In a swift motion, her guardian lifted her off of her feet and rested her on a bench. She remembered being lifted by him five years before, and told him so.

"You were as a feather then, and now you are the swan entire," he replied as he sat beside her.

Christine could not contain the great smile that spread across her face at these words.

"I must ask you to forgive my behaviour last night, I did not mean to frighten you. My spirits have been low and—"

Here Christine interrupted him. "Sorrow need not be forgiven."

"You are wise beyond your years, dear ward. It is true that I am grieved by this terrible event, and had half a mind to walk into that lake and never come back out again."

Christine gasped and threw her arms around the master of the house. "You mustn't say such terrible things," she cried. "Not after Sorelli, dear Sorelli. Promise me, monsieur, promise me."

The master drew her closer. "You will never hear such words fall from my lips again, my cherub. It was only grief tearing at my heart."

Christine's heart warmed and much of her sorrow was forgotten as her guardian held her. She did not remember her father, but she suspected he had held her in much the same manner. Her guardian had never understood the benefits of having a child, but the similar warmth that she caused inside him spurred an understanding of parenting.

"Madame Giry will be missing me," Christine whispered after a few moments had passed.

"Then you must learn your lessons," Monsieur Roinoir answered. Though he had not released her. When she shifted, he pulled away and motioned flippantly toward the château. "Off with you."

She rose and curtsied to her guardian. "Good day, monsieur."

* * *

><p>Erik continued to stare out at the lake until Jeanne came calling for him hours later.<p>

"Monsieur, I thought you had vanished," she scolded him as she approached the gazebo. The clearly exasperated housekeeper ascended the steps and stood before him.

"Did you think it or wish it, Jeanne?" He countered. Something like a smile appeared on his face, but was hidden beneath his bandages.

"You'll exhaust yourself and cause an infection." She leaned forward and lifted the bandage near what used to be his hairline. "It continues to bleed up here, you need to stay in bed until the flesh has closed."

"Tell me, Jeanne, did you expect to be my nurse as well as my housekeeper and nanny? Examining my bloody flesh and blisters?"

Jeanne withdrew from gazing at his wounds. "I am not prone to swooning, and your recently improved manner make it a considerably easier task. Also, after such news, you don't need me being stubborn."

Erik closed his eyes and moved his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before he thought better of it.

"Perhaps we can compromise. If I bring you coffee in the library, would you come inside?"

Erik nodded, but said nothing. He followed Jeanne into the château and then found the softest chair in the library. While he waited for her, he stared at the immaculate state of the room. Each book was dusted and expertly stowed away. There wasn't a cobweb in the corner, nor a spot of soot on the fireplace rug.

Eventually, Jeanne returned with the a tray of coffee. She set it at the table beside him and sat in the nearest chair. It was clear her master did not want to speak, and that did not bother her in the slightest.

"You're a fine housekeeper," he finally whispered. "You do your work well."

Jeanne smiled. "I appreciate that, Erik."

"I'm trying to figure out what it is you are thinking. I know that you are not a stupid woman, and there must be something on your mind."

She paused and set down her cup before she began, "I have wondered if your burns and Sorelli's death are coincidental. I believe she set fire to you with that lamp and has taken her own life in penance and regret. The only thing I can't understand is why someone so sweet would do something so horrible."

Thinking quickly, Erik responded, "I ended our dalliances the day it happened. That night I awoke to the sound of shattering glass. I felt the heat on my skin and smelled the burning hair and flesh."

A rasping sigh escaped him and his fingers absently drifted across his bandages.

"I heard my own screams through the flames and I did what I could to put them out in my hysterical state." He paused and stared beyond Jeanne with shining eyes. "I believe Sorelli put out the flames and left me there. My screams alerted concerned neighbors and I was discovered unconscious on the floor soon afterward."

His eyes met with Jeanne's and her gaze was serious, almost harsh. He could not let on that there was more, some truth needed to remain obscured.

"She could have let me die…" Erik spoke almost wistfully.

"Though she didn't." Jeanne firmly grasped his hand. "I am glad for it. There is some great transformation working inside of you. It is true this tragedy will not disappear, but it does not mean you can't be a better man following it."

Erik scoffed and shook his head. "I don't believe I could ever be a good man."

Jeanne squeezed his hand. "Don't be ridiculous, I said 'a better man'."

Despite the severity of the situation, they both let a laugh burst forth.

"I think I shall retire until dinner is served. I would like to join you downstairs tonight." He stood hastily.

"Shall I have anything in particular prepared?"

He thought and gestured absently with his arms. "Whatever my ward prefers. I care for her to be happy, if it is only in some small way."

As he departed, Jeanne's lips slowly formed into an unexpected smile.

* * *

><p>When dinner was about to be served, the master of the house descended the stairs in a fine suit. His face was freshly bandaged and his pain was manageable.<p>

At the bottom stair, he heard the door knocker being struck. Firmin swept across the foyer and opened the large wooden door. A man he vaguely recognized waited outside, a grand horse was held by a groom behind him.

"Comte de Chagny, it is a pleasant surprise—" Firmin began.

"Though I regret to inform you, the household is about to take dinner," Erik interrupted.

A dispirited expression appeared on the Comte's face when he saw Monsieur Roinoir approaching the door. The Comte's eyes darted toward and away from the bandages and he bowed his head.

"As a neighbor, I only thought it attentive to offer my condolences and future assistance during this difficult time, Monsieur Roinoir. My physician is at your service."

"The news of my misfortune has spread, I see," Erik muttered.

"It was mentioned in the Paris newspaper the following day, monsieur." The Comte spoke almost sheepishly to him, which he considered strange. Phillipe de Chagny was his superior in all ways, and yet, he stumbled on his words. When the Comte's eyes shifted away, Erik turned.

Jeanne and Christine made their way down the steps. The same dispirited expression came over Jeanne's face when she saw the Comte at the door.

Christine, however, was filled with youthful elation.

"Philippe!" Christine cheered as she ran down the remaining stairs and leapt into the Comte's waiting arms.

"Dear, little Lotte, you've grown taller!" He exclaimed and patted the top of her head.

"You must come in for dinner! We're having apple tart for dessert. Jeanne made it just the way we like, with apples she picked this afternoon."

He sighed. "I must return home. I have only come to speak shortly with Monsieur Roinoir, and now I must be off."

Erik noticed that Jeanne had not moved since she saw the Comte.

"You must come again, later this week. Wednesday evening, perhaps? It would be an honor to be your host, but we have only a small meal prepared tonight. " Erik offered.

The Comte stole a glance at Jeanne, and nodded. "I thank you for your offer and accept the invitation, monsieur. This Wednesday evening."

Erik gave a limp wave as the Comte rode off, then forcefully slammed the door.

Jeanne was quiet during dinner, which gave Erik time to speak with an excited Christine.

"We must make the tart again this Wednesday. Philippe must have a fresh apple tart, and duck with orange sauce. Soup and custard, of course," Christine hesitated at her caretaker's wry grin. "Philippe is a favorite of ours, monsieur. He is like an uncle."

"I am pleased to hear my ward has an admirer with such a lofty situation," though he spoke to Christine, his eyes fixed on Jeanne.

"As I have told you before, he is a lovely man," Jeanne offered.

Jeanne prepared herself for a cutting remark from her master, but it never arrived.

Instead he informed Christine of his plans to take over her tutelage.

Christine was ecstatic at the news.

"You'll stay with us?" She exclaimed.

"That is my intention, dear ward. If it would please you."

Christine smiled and nodded her head vigorously. "Of course it should, monsieur."

Erik glanced at Jeanne, who appeared more sullen with each passing moment. When dinner was adjourned, each member of the household departed to their private rooms.

* * *

><p>Jeanne awoke to her servant's bell being pulled. It remained dark outside and she quickly lit a lamp. Christine did not awaken as she stole through her room.<p>

A maid intercepted her outside the door.

"Jeanne, there's something wrong in the master's room. It sounds like there's a war on in there—"

As the maid spoke, Jeanne heard a thundering crash from the direction of Erik's room. She raced to the room, and rapped sternly at the door.

The crashing sounds from inside ceased, but she could hear a sonorous gasping for breath from the master of the house.

"Monsieur Roinoir, please grant me entrance," she said calmly, and tried not to be flustered by the retinue of staff that had gathered down the hall. When he said nothing she repeated her self.

Once more, the master did not respond. Jeanne turned her back to the staff and tried again.

"Erik, open this door now. Christine has gone half mad with worry and she would like to know that her caretaker has not injured himself," she lied.

A moment later, Jeanne heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back. She cautiously entered the room and even in low light could see that Erik had set about destroying each piece of furniture in the room.

He had retreated to the far corner with a hatchet in his hand.

Jeanne closed the door softly. "Well, this is a grand mess that you've made. I truly look forward to cleaning it up in the morning." She shook a torn bed sheet from the bottom of her slipper and waited for Erik to respond.

"I had that bedstead carved and then sent to the château from Persia. Not a single craftsmen in Europe would create it for me, due to its nature. What do you think of that?" He challenged her.

Jeanne surveyed the naked bodies in devious positions that had once been carefully carved and were now hacked to bits.

"I should think any self-respecting craftsmen would refuse such a perverted demand," Jeanne reasoned.

The headboard and posts against the far wall remained, and Erik ran his hand over the post nearest to him.

"Perverted… yes." He nodded. "Sketches from my own mind. Depraved and immoral and wicked." As he spoke he flicked the hatchet toward the remaining section of the bedstead and it stuck fast in the wood.

When the weapon had left his hand, Jeanne rushed toward him and grasped his shoulders.

"Do you have a fever, monsieur?" She place her hand on his forehead, and checked beneath his bandages. He put up no resistance.

"I need to destroy them, dear Jeanne," he told her very seriously.

While Jeanne's eyes went wide, his remained pensive.

"Destroy whom?" She wondered.

"My wicked thoughts, and the places they have manifested. I must rid myself of them, and it has to be this way. It must be violence that drives them from my head and my life. From our lives." He looked toward the door and she knew he thought Christine was outside.

"You are talking pure madness, Erik. You've woken the entire household and they do not know what to think," her voice was firm, but she did not wish to upset him further.

"With each cleave, I am more at ease. My demons leave me, Jeanne. It is not lunacy, it is only release. This is my sorrow leaving me."

He leaned toward her and with a jerk, the hatchet came free.

A latent fear crept through Jeanne, and she thought that perhaps he believed his "wicked thoughts" manifested in her.

"Take it in your hand, dear Jeanne," he instructed and forced her to take it. "Now look at this post." He turned her toward the remains of the bed, then knelt down. He ran his fingers over an indentation and scarring in the wood.

She recognized the deep scratches immediately.

"I bound you like a prisoner, and laughed at your pain. I used your love for my ward as leverage for my disgusting intrigues. Tell me your heart isn't filled with hatred and that you wouldn't like to take a swing with that hatchet—"

As the words left his lips, the hatchet whistled down and severed the offending section of the bedstead clean off. Erik's fingers rested a hair's breadth from where the hatchet had sliced.

They stared at each other cautiously, and Jeanne slowly handed the hatchet back to the master of the house. He reached to the ground for a sheet and placed it in her hands once he reclaimed the hatchet. With the heel of the blade, he made a slit in the fabric.

"Tear it apart, Jeanne. Shred it in two, and then tell me that your soul doesn't feel more at peace," he ordered.

"It's barbarous… and I shouldn't have chopped so close to you hand," she replied, still holding the sheet.

"It's release."

She held his gaze as she gradually tore the sheet. He handed her another when she had finished, and then commenced the destruction of the bedstead himself. When Erik saw that she had finished ripping the second sheet, he produced a letter opener from his desk and threw a pillow at her.

"Shred it, shred all of it," he implored.

She glanced back at the door, knowing the staff was listening to the renewed commotion. Jeanne rested the pillow on the only table that could still stand and stepped out into the hall.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed her and waited for an answer.

"The master of the house is not harmed. The death of his very dear friend and his recent misfortune has upset him deeply. I would like to ask that you return to your rooms and allow Monsieur Roinoir to expel his grief in peace. We have all borne the loss of loved ones, and so I do not expect this reaction should appear to surprise anyone in this hall. I bid you a good night, and will expect a later rising from all tomorrow. Please stay abed for as long as you may need to reclaim the rest you have lost." Jeanne bowed her head regally and entered the master's room.

She took up the pillow and letter opener once more and slashed at it again and again, until feathers fluttered throughout the room.

Erik began hacking through another, and more feathers exploded into the air. They stuck in Jeanne's hair and the master's bandages.

"We should change your bandages now, if you've had enough destruction, monsieur," Jeanne laughed, and picked a few feathers from the linen wrapped around her master's head.

"Rebirth, Jeanne!" He proclaimed in an all-powerful manner she would expect from a stage-actor.

"Yes, yes," she agreed as she searched the sea of feathers for his dressings and ointment. She found the black bag trapped beneath a section of the fallen bed and was able to wrest it out with Erik's assistance.

They sat among the ruins as she removed his soiled bandages and began applying the ointment the doctor had left.

"The weeping wounds have all closed, I believe. I'm surprised you've torn nothing open with all this exertion. No more bandages in a few days."

"I think your calling in life is to be a mother, Jeanne," he remarked unexpectedly.

Jeanne leaned back and cocked her head as she continued applying the ointment. "What makes you say that, I wonder?"

"On one account, your patience—your understanding. The manner in which you've handled Christine. You would never raise a hand to her, would you? Even if she were your own."

Jeanne paused. "No, I would never strike her. I believe that cruelty only begets cruelty."

"And this." The master gestured to his burns. "You act as if the face you're staring at isn't a horror escaped from some damned nightmare. I have gazed at myself, despite the doctor's advice. I'm monstrous, Jeanne, and your eyes don't betray that when you look at me."

"You're scarred, you're not a monster," she reasoned and started redressing the wounds.

"I will wear the dressings after I'm healed. I cannot allow Christine to see this. The poor child would never sleep again. I must protect her."

"She will understand, Erik. There is nothing but kindness in her heart, and an altered face will do nothing to phase her." Jeanne smiled as she finished and tucked the end of the bandage into place.

Erik shook his head. "I won't take such a chance. I do not want my ward to fear me."

"As you wish," Jeanne assented. Her fingers groped in the black bag and she produced a vial of morphine.

Erik gathered his sleeve and prepared for the injection.

"After this night, the man I was will be gone. Tomorrow, I will do everything in my power to be an attentive caretaker of my ward and this home. I'll prove myself, I'll prove to you that it isn't some momentary mania."

Jeanne administered the morphine injection to Erik, and began tying a strip of torn bed sheet around her upper arm. She pulled back the plunger from the vial of morphine. She took in the wreckage around her and grinned at her master.

"It's as you said, _'after this night'_."

Then Erik watched as Jeanne pressed down on the plunger and morphine filled her veins.


End file.
